UC-NRLF 


THE 

KING'S 

HIGHWAY 


MADELINE 

DEADERICK 

WILLARD 


SCtttg's 


A  Sinmanrr  of 

3Fnmrt0ratt 

in  Alia  OJaiifnntta 


By  MADELINE  DEADERICK  WILLARD 


LOS    ANGELES 

GRAFTON   PUBLISHING  CORPORATION 
1913 


COPYRIGHT 

GRAFTON  PUBLISHING  CORPORATION 
1913 


PRESS  OF  WEST  COAST  MAGAZINE 
LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA 


CONTENTS 

Chapter.  Page. 

I.  THE  COMING  OF  DON  MIGUEL.  . .     7 

II.    THE  GREATER  PASSION 17 

III.  LA  PURISIMA  28 

IV.  THE  CHAMPION  OF  THE  PADRE.  ..  48 
V.    ARMS  AND  A  MAN 57 

VI.    THE  HEART  OF  MIGUEL 72 

VII.  THE  WAY  OF  ALL  THE  EARTH  ...  77 

VIII.    ASHES  OF  ROSES 89 

IX.    THE  KING'S  HIGHWAY 98 

X.    RAFAELA  MONTIJO 106 

XL    LA    ENCINA 121 

XII.    SPOTTED  LILIES  AND  WHITE 126 

XIII.  THE  HEM  OF  HER  GARMENT 138 

XIV.  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS 150 

XV.    HOLY  ORDERS 165 

XVI.    A  DREAM  OF  OLD  SPAIN 173 

XVII.  THE  CLOISTER  GATE.  .                .188 


Photo  by  H.  K.  Roberts 

The  Ruined  Church  of  Juan  Capistrano  To-day 


Ktttg'a  Sj 

CHAPTER   I 
The  Coming  of  Don  Miguel 

ON  a  yellow  autumn  day  in  the  year  of 
Our  Lord  1806,  Don  Miguel  first  came 
to  San  Juan  Capistrano,  and  the  mira 
cle  of  his  coming  was  so  great  that  for  years 
it    rivalled    in    popularity    the    stories    of    the 
saints  and  the  outlaws.     For  where  there  is 
not  only  a  miracle,  but  a  mystery  also,  the 
thing  is  not  forgotten  soon.     And  so  it  was 
with  Don  Miguel,  for  the  story  of  his  coming 
reads  like  a  page  from  some  old  romance. 

September  was  always  a  glorious  month  in 
Alta  California,  and  in  the  year  1806,  the 
saints  had  not  decreed  otherwise.  Over 
sleepy  San  Juan  valley  drifted  a  faint,  gold 
mist  that  blended  the  kaleidoscopic  colors  of 
tawny  hills,  blue  sea-water  and  green  meadows 
into  a  delicious  maze  like  the  tones  in  a  ca 
thedral  window.  Across  the  green  floor  of 
the  upper  valley  mottled  sycamores  trailed 
like  slim,  gray  snakes,  the  yellow  glory  of 
their  fallen  leaves  below  them.  Farther  down 


8  The  King's  Highway 

nestled  the  silver-gray  of  carefully-nurtured 
olive  groves,  between  them  stretches  of  green 
vineyards,  tinged  with  autumn  gold.  For  days 
the  sea-wind  had  been  growing  less  and  less, 
and  on  San  Miguel's  Day,  the  twenty-ninth  of 
September,  it  blew  not  at  all.  Even  the  winds, 
said  the  Indians,  as  they  gathered  the  last 
purple  grapes  that  afternoon,  were  bowing 
themselves  in  honor  of  the  great  saint.  And 
those  who  drove  the  cattle  on  the  southern 
ranges  blessed  the  saint,  returning  thanks  for 
a  calm  day.  For,  last  San  Miguel,  had  not 
Pico  Juarez,  the  mysterious  outlaw,  driven 
away  a  whole  herd  of  fat  steers  under  cover 
of  a  high  wind  that  muffled  the  noise  of  their 
hoofs?  Such  a  thing  would  be  impossible 
today,  when  a  sound  easily  carried  for  miles 
in  the  still  air. 

On  a  central  rise  of  ground  that  dominated 
the  valley  towered  the  great  Mission  of  San 
Juan  Capistrano;  its  white  walls,  red  tiles 
and  massive  domes  gleaming  clear  cut  as  a 
splendid  cameo  against  the  sky.  Here  was 
the  life  of  the  valley,  the  reason  for  all 
the  carefully-tended  vineyards,  groves  and 
wheatfields — a  monument  to  the  glory  of  God 
and  to  the  faithful  labor  of  priests  and  ne 
ophytes  that  had  completed  the  beautiful 
church  only  a  few  months  ago. 


The  King's  Highway  9 

Few  of  the  mission  churches  of  Alta  Cali 
fornia  bore  as  eloquent  witness  to  the  adoring 
love  of  their  priestly  builders  as  did  San  Juan 
Capistrano.  A  little  to  the  south  of  the  great, 
square  courtyard  and  its  surrounding  clois 
ters  it  stood :  a  triumph  of  architecture,  a  Te 
Deum  in  stone.  Built  in  the  form  of  a  Roman 
cross,  with  walls  of  solid  masonry  five  feet 
thick,  eight  marvelous  domes  and  a  spkndid 
bell  tower,  San  Juan  was  an  old  world  ca 
thedral  in  conception  and  execution.  But  its 
builders  were  not  content  with  massive  gran 
deur  alone.  Wonderfully  carved  doorways 
groined  arches  and  chiselled  facings  told  their 
story  of  the  builders  whose  tender  devotion 
showed  itself  in  small  things  as  in  great.  The 
men  who  reared  those  walls  labored  not  to 
their  own  glory.  The  worship  of  God  and  the 
helping  of  man  were  their  concern.  "Except 
the  Lord  build  the  house,  they  labor  in  vain 
that  build  it." 

Padre  Vicente  Artillaga,  burning  dead  leaves 
in  the  little  garden  in  a  sheltered  corner  of  the 
great  church  wall,  felt  the  spell  of  the  day, 
and  a  certain  feeling  of  sadness  crept  over 
him.  Leaning  on  his  rake,  the  priest  lifted 
his  eyes  to  where,  far  in  the  cloudless  blue 
above,  a  scattering  flock  of  cranes  drifted 
slowly  southward.  A  faint  cry  floated  down 


10  The  King's  Highway 

to  him  from  overhead,  and  the  man  sighed. 
The  birds  were  homeward  bound,  he  thought, 
with  a  curious  feeling  of  loneliness  that  seldom 
came  to  him.  Padre  Vicente  had  little  time 
for  vain  regrets,  neither  was  his  nature  in 
clined  toward  melancholy.  And  his  sadness, 
if  such  it  could  be  called,  was  of  short  duration 
now.  Dropping  his  gaze  from  the  sky,  the 
priest  seized  his  rake  with  a  firm  grasp,  and 
began  to  stir  the  smouldering  fire  with  vigor 
ous  strokes.  In  the  still  air  rose  a  column 
of  thin,  blue  smoke,  and  Padre  Vicente  snuffed 
its  spicy  fragrance  joyously.  He  was  turning 
to  add  more  dead  leaves  to  the  flames,  when 
the  door  of  the  west  wing  of  the  cloister 
opened  suddenly,  and  a  voice  called:  "Padre! 
Padre  Vicente!" 

The  voice  was  brimming  with  suppressed 
excitement  that  made  the  priest  drop  the  rake 
and  hurry  into  the  cloister. 

"What  is  it,  Juan?"  he  asked  of  the  old 
Indian  who  had  called  him. 

But  Juan's  answer  was  a  confused  jumble 
in  which  a  dead  woman,  a  young  babe  and  a 
white  shawl  dripping  with  sea-water  were 
strangely  mingled.  Padre  Vicente  hurried 
out  to  the  western  colonnade.  There,  in  a 
crowd  of  excited  Indians,  stood  Pablo,  an 
Indian  who  had  grown  old  in  the  service  of 


The  King's  Highway  11 

the  Mission.  In  his  arms  he  clasped  a  bundle 
wrapped  in  the  damp  folds  of  a  white  shawl, 
and  over  the  heads  of  the  gesticulating  crowd, 
his  eyes  sought  the  padre. 

"Pablo,"  said  the  priest  calmly,  "come  this 
way."  Waving  the  crowd  back,  Padre  Vicente 
led  the  man  into  the  cloister  and  shut  the  door. 

"Now  tell  me  what  this  matter  is,"  he  said 
gently,  "and  by  the  most  holy  San  Miguel,  I 
shall  believe  every  word  you  say,  for  you  are 
a  trustworthy  man." 

Pablo  cast  an  adoring  look  at  the  padre. 

"This  afternoon,"  he  said  simply,  "Padre 
Mateo  sent  Pablo  after  the  cattle  in  the  pas 
ture  by  the  sea.  When  Pablo  came  there  he 
saw  a  little  boat  on  the  rocks  off  the  shore, 
and  there  were  a  man  and  a  woman  in  it. 
The  boat  was  breaking  in  two  in  the  middle, 
and  the  people  could  not  get  off,  for  there 
were  many  rocks  and  the  waves  were  high. 
Pablo  could  do  nothing,  and  so  he  prayed  to 
the  blessed  Virgin,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  A 
big  wave  went  over  the  boat,  and  when  it 
passed  by,  the  boat  was  in  two  pieces,  and  the 
water  went  over  the  boat."  Pablo  breathed 
heavily,  and  his  voice  trembled,  as  if  the 
moment  were  yet  with  him.  "Pablo  waited 
on  the  shore,"  he  went  on,  "to  see  if  any 
should  come  ashore  alive.  But  there  came 


12  The  King's  Highway 

none  but  this  child  in  its  mother's  arms — and 
the  mother  was  dead — her  head  struck  on  a 
rock."  Pablo's  voice  was  gentle  now.  "Pablo 
took  the  child,"  he  said,  "and  waited  to  see 
if  the  man  should  come  ashore.  But  he  did 
not  come.  The  water  carried  him  away." 

"Give  me  the  child,"  said  Padre  Vicente 
suddenly. 

With  the  greatest  tenderness,  the  old  Indian 
laid  his  burden  in  the  priest's  outstretched 
arms. 

"And  the  child  is  whole,  Pablo — he  is  not 
hurt  at  all." 

"Quite  whole,  padre,"  said  Pablo  reverently, 
"quite  whole.  The  mother's  arm  kept  him 
from  the  rocks.  It  is  a  miracle — the  holy 
saints  have  saved  him." 

"You  are  right,  Pablo,"  returned  Padre 
Vicente,  "it  is  indeed  a  miracle."  He  pushed 
aside  the  folds  of  the  shawl  that  he  might 
look  at  the  child.  The  little  thing  wakened, 
and  its  round,  dark  eyes  gazed  straight  into 
the  padre's  own.  It  was  evidently  pleased 
with  what  it  saw  there,  for  it  smiled,  and, 
lifting  one  fist,  waved  it  full  in  the  face  of 
Padre  Vicente's  thirty-five  years  of  priestly 
dignity. 

"Poor  little  one,"  murmured  the  padre  com 
passionately,  as  he  laid  the  child  again  in  the 


The  King's  Highway  13 

Indian's  arms.  "Take  it  to  your  wife,  Pablo, 
that  she  may  care  for  it.  If  she  finds  any 
mark  on  its  clothing,  let  her  bring  it  to  me. 
And  the  mother — " 

"The  body  is  in  the  courtyard,  padre,"  said 
Pablo  quietly. 

"Let  the  women  prepare  it  for  burial," 
directed  Padre  Vicente  after  a  moment,  "and 
if  there  are  any  marks  that  may  tell  who  she 
was,  have  them  brought  to  me." 

"Si,  padre,"  replied  the  old  Indian,  and 
carried  the  child  out  of  the  room.  Then, 
because  the  Angelus  was  ringing,  Padre  Vi 
cente  made  his  way  into  the  sacristy  of  the 
church. 

*        *        * 

When  three  days  had  passed,  a  burial  ser 
vice  was  held  in  San  Juan  Mission,  and  after 
ward  a  christening.  The  burial  was  read  for 
the  mother  of  the  baby  who  was  christened, 
and  both  services  were  under  the  direction 
of  Padre  Vicente. 

The  most  rigorous  search  had  failed  to 
reveal  any  marks  of  identification  on  either 
mother  or  child.  The  features  of  the  mother, 
who  was  young  and  beautiful,  were  of  the 
proud,  Castilian  type,  but  her  clothes  were 
simple  and  unmarked,  and  her  only  ornament 
was  a  plain,  gold  ring  without  engraving  of 


14  The  King's  Highway 

any  description.  The  child,  a  boy  of  perhaps 
twelve  months,  was  richly  dressed,  and  wore 
about  his  neck  a  blessed  medal  of  Our  Lady 
of  Guadalupe.  The  medal  bore  no  mark  of  any 
kind,  however,  and  at  first  the  good  padre  was 
puzzled  to  know  what  to  do  concerning  the 
naming  of  the  child.  Though  careful  search 
was  made  both  up  and  down  the  coast,  for 
the  body  of  the  man  who  was  probably  the 
father  of  the  child,  nothing  was  found.  A 
strong  offshore  current  at  the  place  of  the 
accident  had  carried  away  every  trace  of  the 
wreck,  and  not  even  a  plank  from  the  frail 
craft  came  ashore.  This  fact  was  clear  proof 
that  the  child  had  been  saved  by  a  miracle, 
for  who  else  but  the  good  God  and  His  holy 
saints  could  have  brought  the  child  safely  to 
land  through  the  sharp  rocks  and  beating 
waves,  when  all  else  was  lost?  But  the  saints 
must  also  have  decreed  that  child's  name 
should  forever  remain  a  mystery,  else  why  was 
no  trace  left? 

So  Padre  Vicente  decided  to  baptize  the 
child.  For,  he  reasoned,  since  the  babe 
brought  no  name  with  him,  he  must  have  a 
new  one  to  grow  up  with,  and  to  gain  a  new 
name,  he  must  be  baptized.  The  blessed  medal 
of  Our  Lady  tied  about  the  child's  throat 
doubtless  indicated  that  the  mother  was  a 


The  King's  Highway  15 

pious  woman,  who  died  in  the  hope  of  God, 
and  being  pious,  she  must  have  had  her  son 
baptized.  But  of  course  there  was  a  chance 
that  circumstances  might  have  prevented  the 
ceremony.  At  any  rate,  argued  Padre  Vi 
cente,  it  was  certain  that  a  second  baptism 
could  do  no  harm. 

Accordingly,  when  the  burial  was  over,  and 
the  prayers  for  the  dead  had  been  recited, 
both  for  the  fair,  young  mother  in  the  Mission 
graveyard  and  the  luckless  young  father  under 
the  blue  sea-water,  the  child  was  christened. 
The  solemn  ceremony  was  performed  with 
holy  water  taken  from  the  great  baptismal 
font  of  carved  stone  by  the  hand  of  Padre 
Vicente  himself,  with  old  Pablo  and  his  wife 
Maria  as  sponsors.  The  name  the  padre 
conferred  upon  the  child  was  Miguel  de  Dios 
Artillaga ;  Miguel,  because  he  came  to  the 
Mission  on  San  Miguel's  Day,  and  de  Dios 
Artillaga  because,  as  Padre  Vicente  told  him 
self,  he  had  a  better  right  to  give  that  name 
than  any  other,  since  it  was  his  own  name,  and 
had  been  his  father's.  Besides,  it  was  a  very 
honorable  name,  that  any  man  might  be  proud 
to  bear. 

From  the  niches  in  the  transepts  and  above 
the  altar,  the  Holy  Christ,  His  Virgin  Mother, 
and  nine  blessed  saints  stared  with  unwinking 


16  The  King's  Highway 

eyes  across  blazing  candles  at  the  solemn 
ceremony,  and  the  dim  church  was  crowded 
with  awed  neophytes  who  had  attended  the 
burial  service  an  hour  before. 

And  so  little  Miguel  de  Dios  Artillaga 
started  out  life  anew  at  San  Juan  Capistrano, 
with  a  new  name  conferred  with  all  the  rites 
of  Holy  Church,  a  pair  of  pious  Indian  god 
parents,  and  a  holy  father  to  watch  over  his 
soul — living  as  it  were,  in  the  very  shadow  of 
the  sanctuary. 


CHAPTER  II. 
The   Greater  Passion 

OVER  the  valley  of  the  Mission  of  the 
Crusader  saint  passed  the  gorgeous 
pageantry  of  the  years,  and  found 
Padre  Vicente  still  at  his  post.  If  a  friend  of 
the  padre's  youth  in  Old  Spain  had  chanced 
into  San  Juan  church  some  morning  while  the 
padre  celebrated  sunrise  mass,  he  would  have 
said  at  first  glance  that  the  man  had  grown 
older,  of  course,  but  that  at  forty  he  was  the 
same  man  that  he  had  been  at  twenty-one.  The 
tall  frame  in  the  priest's  robe  was  a  little 
more  spare  perhaps,  and  the  muscles  were 
harder.  The  skin  was  browner  by  reason  of 
much  labor  under  the  sun ;  but  the  tonsured 
head  was  not  gray,  and  being  shaven  served 
only  to  accentuate  the  noble  plan  on  which 
the  head  was  built.  The  light  of  the  sun  and 
the  cares  of  the  Church  had  put  some  lines 
into  the  face,  but  it  was  the  same  honest,  open 
face,  and  the  magnetic  eyes  were  the  same. 
No,  at  forty.  Padre  Vicente  was  not  another 
man  than  he  had  been  at  twentyone. 

That  is  what  one  would  have  said  at  first 


18  The  King's  Highiuay 

glance,  but  on  second  thought,  the  friend  of 
the  padre's  youth  would  have  said  that  the 
man  was  not  the  same.  There  was  something 
in  the  face  of  the  priest  that  had  not  been  there 
in  his  younger  days.  It  was  what  the  world 
sees  in  the  faces  of  certain  saints,  but  not  all. 
It  was  the  seal  of  something  invisible,  but  not 
unknowable,  and  if  one  had  said  that  it  was 
renunciation,  one  would  have  been  only  half 
right.  It  was  all  of  that,  but  it  was  more. 
Moreover,  if  there  are  those  of  you  who  think 
that  a  priest's  robe  is  an  infallible  sign  of 
renunciation,  you  are  sadly  mistaken.  There 
are  several  ways  in  which  a  man  may  don  a 
priest's  robe  without  renunciation,  but  Padre 
Vicente's  way  was  none  of  these. 

If  a  man,  poor  both  in  the  things  of  this 
world  and  the  things  of  the  spirit,  put  on  a 
priest's  gown  because  it  assures  him  a  living 
and  safety  from  a  hard  world,  he  renounces 
nothing  because  he  has  nothing  to  renounce. 
Also,  there  are  those  who,  because  their  nature 
is  cold  to  the  things  of  this  world,  enter  holy 
orders  because  they  care  not  at  all  for  any 
thing.  In  reality  these  are  not  different  from 
the  former,  since,  not  caring  for  what  they 
have  left,  they  cannot  know  renunciation. 
Another  class  of  those  who  know  not  the 
blessings  of  sacrifice  are  those  who  enter  the 


The  King's  Highway  19 

service  of  the  Church  as  a  last  resort  because 
of  disappointment  in  the  things  of  this  life. 
Surely  they  have  not  renounced,  since  that 
which  they  love  has  been  torn  from  them. 

A  man  knows  renunciation  only  when  of 
his  own  free  will,  he  leaves  what  he  loves  for 
the  sake  of  a  cause.  Padre  Vicente  had  done 
this  to  the  full;  but,  because  he  had  been  urged 
by  more  than  a  sense  of  duty,  he  had  known 
what  was  greater  than  sacrifice.  And  this, 
more  than  anything  else,  was  the  elusive  thing 
in  the  face  of  the  man  of  forty  that  had  not 
been  there  at  twenty-one. 

The  eldest  son  of  a  wealthy  Spanish  family 
of  high  estate,  Padre  Vicente,  then  known  as 
Evaristo  de  Dios  Artillaga,  seemed  destined 
for  great  things.  Richly  endowed,  not  only 
with  worldly  wealth,  but  also  with  unusual 
powers  of  body,  mind  and  personality,  young 
Artillaga  was  the  idol  of  a  host  of  friends 
Keenly  appreciative  of  the  joy  of  living,  he 
rejoiced  in  his  great  opportunities,  and  because 
of  his  marked  qualities  of  leadership,  he  might 
have  made  a  name  for  himself  in  the  affairs 
of  state.  But  Fate  had  cast  the  young  man's 
lot  in  another  direction.  The  friends  of  Evar- 
isto's  youth  were  not  of  one  class  alone,  and 
among  them  was  a  priest  of  the  cathedral  in 
Tarragona.  This  priest  was  a  man  of  high 


20  The  King's  Highway 

character  and  clear  vision,  and  to  him  was 
entrusted  the  mission  of  giving  to  the  Church 
a  noble  son.  From  the  priest,  Evaristo 
learned  of  the  splendid  work  of  Junipero 
Serra  and  his  coadjutors  on  the  shores  of  New 
Spain.  Like  them,  the  young  man  became 
fired  with  the  glory  of  missionary  enterprise, 
and,  after  a  hard  struggle  in  which  the  spirit 
triumphed  over  the  flesh,  declared  his  inten 
tion  of  entering  a  priests'  college  with  a  view 
toward  the  New  World.  The  elder  Artillaga 
was  a  man  of  great  worldly  wisdom,  and  he 
opposed  the  purpose  of  his  son.  But  the  zeal 
of  Evaristo  was  so  great  that  it  finally  pre 
vailed,  and  the  young  man  entered  the  Order 
of  Saint  Francis.  And  herein  lay  a  paradox. 
Possessing  more  of  the  good  things  of  this 
life  than  most  men  possess,  arid  loving  them 
more,  Evaristo  de  Dios  Artillaga  must  have 
sacrificed  more  in  giving  them  up.  Yet,  in 
another  way,  his  sacrifice  was  less,  since  his 
vision  was  greater.  It  was  not  that  the  things 
of  this  life  were  less  to  him ;  but  that  the 
Cross  of  Christ  was  more. 

So  it  was  that  Evaristo  turned  his  back  on 
the  world  that  he  knew  and  loved  so  well. 
And  then,  as  if  it  had  been  decreed  that  the 
cup  of  life  which  he  was  setting  aside  should 
not  lack  one  drop  of  perfect  fullness,  during 


The  King's  Highivay  21 

the  period  of  preparation  for  the  priesthood, 
Evaristo  met  the  woman  who  ever  after  was 
the  one  woman  of  all  to  him.  Even  as  his 
powers  of  mind  and  body  exceeded  those  of 
most  men,  Evaristo  exceeded  also  in  loving. 
And  as  if  this  were  not  enough,  though  no 
word  of  love  passed  between  him  and  the  pure 
object  of  his  passion,  it  was  given  to  him  to 
know  that  she  loved  him  too.  It  was  not 
too  late  yet  to  refuse  the  final  vows — life 
and  love  were  easily  reached.  This  thing 
cost  more — infinitely  more  to  set  aside  than 
all  the  rest,  and  that  had  not  been  easy. 
Yet  Evaristo  put  this  behind  him,  as  he 
had  done  with  everything  else.  It  was  not  that 
love  was  less  to  him  than  to  other  men.  For, 
though  many  may  not  believe  it,  there  is  a 
greater  passion  than  love.  And  it  was  this 
greater  passion  that  had  taken  possession  of 
the  body  and  soul  of  Evaristo  de  Dios  Artil- 
laga. 

Therefore,  when  Padre  Vicente  came  to  his 
labors  on  the  far  off  shores  of  Alta  California, 
he  came  as  one  who  had  known  the  whole 
joy  of  living,  yet  had  set  all  aside  for 
the  passion  of  his  soul.  Perhaps  that  was 
the  secret  of  the  peculiar  sympathy  that  he 
brought  to  the  field  of  his  labors;  and  certain 
is  was  that  it  was  easier  for  the  people  to 


22  The  King's  Highway 

believe  what  he  told  them  of  the  love  of  God, 
because  of  the  clear  image  of  that  love  in  the 
priest's  tenderness  for  them.  But,  having  set 
aside  all  that  he  had  for  the  greater  passion, 
Padre  Vicente  did  not  know  that  in  time  the 
love  of  God  would  require  of  him  still  more. 
*  *  * 

From  the  blue  of  heaven  the  call  of  the 
southward  drifting  cranes  floated  down  to  the 
padres'  garden,  as  it  had  on  that  day  six  years 
ago  when  little  Miguel  first  came  to  San  Juan 
Capistrano.  But  Padre  Vicente,  pruning  the 
Castilian  rose  that  nestled  in  the  crook  of  the 
church  wall,  did  not  look  up  to  see  the  birds. 
Instead,  he  was  all  intent  upon  the  innocent 
prattle  of  little  Miguel  who  played  at  his  feet, 
digging  with  a  trowel  in  the  soft  earth.  Then 
Miguel,  looking  up  saw  the  cranes. 

"Look,  padre,"  he  said  in  his  quaint  Spanish, 
"there  are  birds." 

"Si,  Miguelito  Mio,"  answered  Padre  Vi 
cente,  still  busy  with  his  rose,  "those  are 
cranes." 

"Cranes,"  repeated  the  child  after  him, 
"cranes,  padre." 

He  dropped  his  trowel,  and  running  to  the 
priest,  took  a  fold  of  the  man's  brown  robe  in 
his  hand.  Miguel  was  not  more  than  seven 
years  of  age,  but,  living  as  he  did  in  the 


The  King's  Highway  23 

solemn  atmosphere  of  a  monastery,  and  listen 
ing  to  stories  of  the  saints  and  chants  of  the 
Church  where  other  children  heard  fairy  tales 
and  nursery  songs,  it  was  no  wonder  that  he 
was  old  beyond  his  years.  "Tell  Miguel  where 
the  cranes  go,"  he  begged  eagerly. 

"Where  they  go?"  said  Padre  Vicente. 
"Why,  hijo  mio,  they  are  going  home  for  the 
winter." 

"Home?"  questioned  Miguel  wonderingly. 
"Do  cranes  have  homes,  padre?" 

The  child  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Did  you  ever  have  a  home,  padre?"  he 
asked  suddenly. 

"Sure,  Miguel  of  my  heart.  My  home  is 
here." 

"But  not  like  that,"  persisted  the  child. 
"You  live  in  a  big  house  with  other  men,  but 
you  have  not  a  home.  I  mean  a  home  like  the 
home  of  Manuel,"  he  went  on,  referring  to 
one  of  his  little  Indian  companions.  "He  lives 
in  a  little  house  with  his  father  and  mother  and 
brothers  and  sisters.  He  has  a  home." 

The  priest  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  he 
forgot  to  prune  the  rose  vine. 

"Home!  Father  and  mother  and  brothers 
and  sisters!" 

What  memories  the  words  awoke!  Across 
the  years  the  mind  of  Padre  Vicente  flashed 


24  The  King's  Highway 

back  to  his  ancestrial  home  in  Old  Spain — 
his  beloved  parents,  his  happy  brothers  and 
sisters,  his  friends.  And  the  woman  who  was 
now  to  him  like  a  saint  in  a  niche,  put  there 
out  of  reach  by  his  own  hand — who  might 
have  been  all  else  to  him — the  priest  shut 
his  eyes  for  a  moment.  He  had  left  them  all 
to  carry  the  Cross  of  Christ  into  the  wilder 
ness.  The  cost  had  been  heavy,  but  all  was 
as  nothing  beside  the  exceeding  great  reward. 

"Padre — listen,"  Miguel  was  saying  again. 
"Did  you  have  a  home  when  you  were  a  little 
boy  like  me?" 

"Si,  Miguelito,  si,"  answered  the  man  ten 
derly.  "Come  here,  beloved,  and  Padre  Vi 
cente  will  tell  you  a  story." 

Together  the  priest  and  the  child  sat  down 
on  the  stone  bench  in  the  sun,  and  the  man 
took  the  little  one's  hand  in  his. 

"Once,  Miguelito  Mio,"  he  began,  "there 
lived  a  man  who  had  everything  to  make 
him  happy — home  and  father  and  mother  and 
brothers  and  sisters.  He  lived  in  a  beautiful 
house  in  a  beautiful  land,  and  he  had  gold 
to  buy  everything  his  heart  could  wish  for 
himself  and  his  friends.  He  was  very  happy 
with  all  this.  But  one  day  he  saw  something 
that  was  much  finer  than  anything  that  he 
had — oh  much  more  splendid  than  all  his 


The  King's  Highway  25 

beautiful  things.  It  was  a  pearl,  and  when  the 
man  saw  it,  he  wanted  it  more  than  he  had 
ever  wanted  anything  else/' 

The  priest  paused  for  a  moment,  and  the 
listening  child  grew  impatient. 

"Please,  padre,  go  on,"  he  begged.  "Didn't 
the  man  who  was  so  rich  have  enough  money 
to  buy  the  pearl?" 

"No,  Miguel,"  said  Padre  Vicente  gravely. 
"There  was  not  enough  money  in  the  world 
to  buy  that  pearl." 

"But  I  thought  you  said  the  man  had  a  great 
deal  of  money,  all  he  wanted,"  argued  little 
Miguel.  "Wasn't  it  like  the  pearl  in  the  story 
you  read  in  the  Book — the  pearl  of  great 
price?  And  the  man  in  that  story  bought 
the  pearl." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Padre  Vicente,  "it  was  like 
that.  But  the  pearl  in  my  story  was  not 
bought  with  money." 

"How  was  it  bought,  then?"  puzzled  the 
child.  "I  thought  money  was  to  buy  things 
with." 

"Listen,  and  you  shall  hear,"  said  the  padre. 
"Money  could  not  buy  the  pearl,  because  it 
was  not  for  one  man  alone.  He  could  not 
keep  it  for  himself.  It  was  to  share  with 
other  people,  and  that  was  what  made  it  cost 
so  much." 


26  The  King's  Highway 

"And  how  much  did  it  cost,  then?"  asked 
the  child. 

"It  cost  everything  that  the  man  had,"  an 
swered  Padre  Vicente  simply.  "The  man  had 
to  pay  much  more  than  money.  Home  and 
father  and  mother — friends  and  the  hope  of 
joys  that  might  be  his  in  time  to  come — all 
these  were  the  price  of  the  pearl." 

"And  did  the  man  pay  the  price?"  ques 
tioned  Miguel  anxiously. 

"Si,  Miguelito  mio,"  returned  the  priest 
calmly,  "he  paid  the  price." 

"What?  Everything?"  cried  the  child  in 
surprise.  "You  don't  mean  that  he  gave  up 
all  that  he  had?" 

"Everything,  Miguel,"  said  the  padre. 

"But  the  man  in  the  Book  didn't  do  that," 
said  the  child  sagely,  "he  didn't  give  up  his 
friends.  He  just  paid  money." 

"We  do  not  know,  hijo  mio,"  replied  the 
priest.  "Perhaps  the  man's  friends  wouldn't 
care  for  him  any  longer  when  all  his  posses 
sions  were  gone." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  little  Miguel 
slowly.  Then,  after  a  silence,  he  lifted  troubled 
eyes  to  the  padre's  face.  "Was  the  man  ever 
sorry  that  he  gave  everything  for  the  pearl?" 

Padre  Vicente  smiled. 

"No,  Miguelito,  the  man  was  never  sorry," 


The  King's  Highway  27 

he  said.  "He  was  happier  than  he  had  ever 
been  before." 

The  child  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"Then  it  isn't  true — what  old  Juana  says — 
that  you  have  to  wait  to  be  happy  till  you  are 
dead?"  he  asked  innocently. 

"No,  hijo  mio,"  said  the  priest  with  certain 
ty,  "you  do  not  have  to  wait." 

Whereby,  had  little  Miguel  been  able  to 
understand,  he  would  have  known  that  Padre 
Vicente  had  already  entered  upon  his  exceed 
ing  great  reward. 


CHAPTER  III. 
La  Purisima 

A/ONG  the  bare,  broken  hillsides  of 
San  Juan  the  early  rains  brought 
autumn  grass  that  year,  and  the 
tragedy  of  1812  had  not  yet  come  to  pass. 
The  changes  that  had  come  over  the  peaceful 
little  valley  during  the  past  few  years  were 
gradual  but  sure.  The  rancherias  were  larger 
and  more  thickly  populated,  and  the  flocks 
and  herds  that  roamed  the  hills  were  more 
numerous  and  more  prosperous  than  before. 
The  olive  groves  were  older,  and  bore  heavier 
crops  of  glistening  black  fruit.  Along  the 
level  floor  of  the  valley,  the  vineyards  and 
orchards  spread  more  widely  than  in  the  past, 
and  everywhere  the  yellow  wheat-fields  ex 
tended  farther  over  the  rolling  mesas.  All 
through  the  valley  moved  swarms  of  Indians 
at  their  work  among  the  groves  and  vineyards, 
and  in  the  cloisters  resounded  the  swing  and 
thud  of  the  loom  and  the  clang  of  the  hammer 
at  the  forge.  The  bells  in  the  tower  swung 
over  all  with  benediction  still,  but  in  the 
hearts  of  Padre  Vicente  and  his  brother  priests 


The  King's  Highway  29 

lurked  a  fear  that  in  the  space  of  a  few  years 
had  grown  from  the  measure  of  a  mocking 
dwarf  to  the  stature  of  a  threatening  giant. 
It  was  the  fear  of  a  premature  secularization 
of  the  Missions.  Beside  this  menace,  the 
terror  of  Pico  Juarez,  who  still  lurked  in  the 
hills,  harrying  the  flocks  and  herds  and  leading 
off  Indians  from  the  Mission,  was  like  the 
shadow  of  a  summer  cloud.  From  the  first 
the  fathers  had  known  that  secularization  must 
come  some  day.  No  one  doubted  that  in  the 
fullness  of  time,  secularization  would  be  the 
fitting  outcome  of  the  Mission  system.  But 
the  fullness  of  time  was  not  yet,  and  premature 
secularization  \vould  mean  the  utter  ruin  of 
the  whole  splendid  fabric  wrought  so  tenderly 
by  the  devoted  hands  of  the  Mission  fathers. 
Desperately  the  fathers  fought  against  it,  and 
hopefully  they  told  each  other  that  the  dread 
blow  surely  would  not  fall,  until,  softened  by 
the  fullness  of  time,  it  should  be  not  a  blow 
at  all,  but  rather  a  blessing.  But  still  the 
menace  lurked  in  the  dark,  peering  out  of 
corners  where  least  expected ;  and  the  heart  of 
each  loyal  adherent  of  Holy  Church  in  New 
Spain  grew  cold  with  the  fear  he  tried  not  to 
feel 


30  The  King's  Highway 

The  afternoon  of  the  seventh  of  December, 
the  eve  of  the  Feast  of  the  Immaculate  Concep 
tion,  was  warm  and  sultry  in  San  Juan  valley. 
Old  Rosario,  a  huge,  woven  basket  on  his  arm, 
and  little  Miguel  trotting  at  his  side,  crossed 
the  King's  Highway  south  of  the  Mission 
buildings  and  plunged  into  a  thicket  of  wil 
lows  and  live  oaks  that  bordered  the  road.  The 
two  had  come  to  gather  green  boughs  to  place 
in  the  church  in  honor  of  the  morrow's  celebra 
tion,  and  they  halted  first  under  a  tall  sycamore 
filled  with  clinging  knots  of  pearl-studded 
mistletoe. 

The  child  picked  up  a  bunch  of  the  gleaming 
berries  that  his  companion  had  gathered,  and 
thrust  it  into  the  basket,  but  it  was  plain  that 
his  thoughts  were  somewhere  else. 

"Rosario,"  he  said  slowly,  as  he  looked  wist 
fully  back  to  where  the  broad  trail  of  the 
King's  Highway  stretched  away  outside  the 
thicket,  "Rosario,  where  does  the  trail  go  to?" 

"What?  The  King's  Highway?"  asked  the 
old  Indian  in  his  husky  voice.  "It  goes  to  the 
other  churches.  I  have  been  as  far  north  as 
San  Gabriel,  and  south  to  San  Diego,"  he  said 
proudly. 

"But  after  that — after  San  Diego,  where 
then,  Rosario?"  questioned  Miguel. 


The  King's  Highway  31 

"Santisima!  And  have  not  the  padres  told 
you?  To  Mexico  then." 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  mean  that,  "  exclaimed  the 
boy  petulantly.  "I  don't  mean  just  Mexico." 

"What  do  you  mean  then?"  queried  old 
Rosario  patiently. 

"Oh — beyond  Mexico  and  the  mountains — 
what  is  there,  Rosario?'' 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"Dios  sabe,"  he  said  piously,  and  crossed 
himself.  Then,  after  a  moment  in  which  there 
was  no  sound  save  the  chattering  of  the  quar 
reling  black  birds  in  the  branches  overhead, 
the  man  laid  down  his  armful  of  green  boughs. 

"Ask  the  padres,"  he  said  with  the  air  of  one 
who  after  much  thought  comes  to  the  root  of 
the  matter.  "Ask  the  padres.  They  know 
everything." 

"My  padre  does,"  returned  the  child  proudly, 
"but  the  other  padres  do  not.  My  padre  was 
sitting  with  the  others  in  the  garden  yester 
day,  and  they  all  looked  at  a  big  piece  of  paper 
with  marks  on  it.  There  was  one  long,  crooked 
line  with  many  little  dots  beside  it,  and  letters 
besides  the  dots,  and  I  asked  them  what  it  was. 
Padres  Mateo  and  Luis  would  not  tell  me, 
but  Padre  Vicente  said  the  line  was  the  King's 
Highway,  and  the  dots  were  the  Missions, 
with  letters  to  tell  the  names." 


32  The  King's  Highway 

"I  know.  It  was  a  map."  said  the  old  Indian 
wisely. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  child,  "it  was  a  map  of  the 
King's  Highway.  I  asked  them  what  that 
was,  and  Padre  Vicente  said  that  it  was  the 
trail  that  went  past  the  Mission.  Then  he  said 
for  me  run  away  and  not  bother  the  padres 
any  more." 

"And  did  you  obey  the  good  padre  then?" 

"Yes,"  said  little  Miguel  quaintly,  "the 
saints  know  I  always  obey!  But  first  I  told 
them  that  when  I  grew  to  be  a  man  I  would  be 
a  soldier  and  ride  a  big,  black  horse  away 
off,  far  away  on  that  trail.  But  Padre  Luis 
grew  very  angry,  and  said  that  when  I  grew 
up  I  should  be  a  priest,  but  never  a  cursed 
soldier!  Padre  Mateo  said  so  too,  but  Padre 
Vicente  did  not  say  anything.  I  went  away 
then,  but  I  do  not  believe  that  Padre  Luis 
was  right." 

"But  why  do  you  think  that  Padre  Vicente 
knows  more  that  the  rest?"  puzzled  old 
Rosario. 

"Oh!  Because  he  did  not  say  what  he  knew 
nothing  about!"  said  the  child  sagely.  "Padre 
Luis  cannot  know  what  I  shall  do  when  I  grow 
to  be  a  man.  How  can  he?" 

"Quien  sabe?"  questioned  old  Rosario.  "The 
most  holy  San  Miguel  saved  you  from  the 


The  King's  Highway  33 

waves  when  a  very  young  child,  and  the  saints 
save  people  to  make  of  them  priests,  but  never 
soldiers.  No  es  verdad?" 

"The  devil  and  the  saints  know!"  ejaculated 
the  child  piously.  Then,  after  a  moment  he 
rose  from  the  ground  where  he  had  been  sit 
ting,  and  threw  a  handful  of  green  into  the 
basket.  "Santa  Maria!  How  I  hate  the 
devil!"  he  remarked  irrelevantly. 

"Callate!  But  but  you  must  not  say  it  so 
loudly.  He  might  hear  and  be  displeased," 
warned  the  old  Indian,  to  whom  the  Evil  One 
was  always  an  avenging  though  unseen  pres 
ence. 

"Padre  Vicente  speaks  of  the  devil  when  he 
wills,  and  I  do  not  believe  he  cares  to  please 
him,"  said  the  child  naively.  "And  it  is  true, 
Rosario,  I  do  hate  the  devil.  Whenever  there 
is  anything  wrong  done,  the  devil  is  at 
the  bottom  of  it!  When  Jose  and  Mariano 
quarreled  and  hurt  each  other  last  All  Saints' 
Day,  Padre  Vicente  said  the  devil  had  done 
it.  And  when  Gabriel  ran  away,  it  was  the 
devil  that  made  him  do  it.  And  Pico  Juarez 
— is  not  the  devil  always  with  him?"  Little 
Miguel  paused,  then,  with  the  easy  transition 
of  a  child,  asked  suddenly:  "Shall  you  carry 
a  candle  in  the  procession  tomorrow,  Rosario?" 


34  The  King's  Highway 

"No,"  replied  the  old  Indian  sadly,  "Rosario 
is  too  old  to  sing  any  more." 

"Miguel  is  sorry,"  said  the  child  impulsively, 
"for,  next  to  Padre  Vicente  and  his  dear  Pablo, 
he  loves  you." 

The  old  man  smiled. 

"I  shall  watch  you  when  you  march  and 
sing,"  he  said. 

"Buenas  gracias,  Rosario,"  returned  the  boy 
politely.    "I  shall  look  for  you.    I  am  to  carry 
the  big  silver  cross.     Maria  has  made  me  a 
beautiful  robe,"  he  added  with  pride. 

"It  is  a  sign  that  you  will  be  a  priest,  Miguel- 
ito,"  said  the  old  man.  "I  think  Padre  Luis 
was  right." 

The  child  laughed. 

"Perhaps,"  he  answered  thoughtfully,  "but 
first  I  shall  ride  on  the  King's  Highway." 
*       *       * 

Over  San  Juan  mountain,  the  sun  rose  lurid 
behind  sullen  clouds  on  the  morning  of  the 
Feast  of  the  Immaculate  Conception.  There 
was  no  breeze,  and  when  the  bells  rang  for 
sunrise  mass,  the  air  was  already  stifling  and 
sultry.  From  the  fields  came  the  uneasy  cry 
of  cattle,  answered  by  herds  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  valley.  In  the  trees  and  vines  of  the 
Mission  garden,  the  chattering  voices  of  the 
birds  were  silent,  and  the  stillness  seemed 


The  King's  Highway  35 

prophetic  of  impending  evil.  Flies  buzzed  in 
the  corridors,  and  crawled  over  the  white 
washed  walls  and  carved  doorways  in  black 
swarms.  It  was  a  fit  morning  for  a  tragedy. 

Heavy-eyed  and  sleep-hungry,  the  people 
rose  from  their  beds  and  hurried  into  the 
church  where  mass  was  to  be  celebrated. 
Under  the  sky,  the  light  of  heaven  was  dim 
that  morning,  and  the  church,  lighted  only 
through  the  towers  on  the  roof,  was  almost 
dark.  On  the  pavement  crouched  a  huddled 
mass  of  kneeling  Indians,  muttering  over  their 
beads;  and  from  the  sanctuary,  Our  Lady 
Queen  of  the  Angels  smiled  down  at  them 
across  the  blaze  of  lighted  candles.  Suddenly, 
from  the  darkness  of  the  north  transept  came 
the  opening  notes  of  the  glorious  Te  Deum 
laudamus,  and  a  procession  of  white  robed 
neophytes  carrying  lighted  candles,  filed  into 
the  nave.  At  the  head  of  the  procession, 
bearing  aloft  in  his  hands  a  tall,  silver  cross, 
paced  little  Miguel.  His  dark  eyes  were  big 
and  solemn,  and,  in  his  white  robe,  with  the 
sacred  emblem  in  his  childish  hands,  he  was 
like  the  statue  of  the  little  San  Luis  in  the 
church  at  San  Luis  Rey.  Slowly  the  proces 
sion  advanced. 

"O  Lord,  save  Thy  people  and  bless  Thine 
heritage : 


36  The  King's  Highway 

Govern  them  and  lift  them  up  forever!" 

The  words  fell  like  a  benediction  upon  the 
kneeling  worshipers.  Sweeping  upward  in  a 
last  imploring  strain,  the  music  reached  its 
splendid  climax,  and  the  last  notes  died  in  the 
arched  domes  far  above. 

In  the  stillness  that  followed  the  chant, 
Padre  Vicente  rose  from  where  he  knelt  before 
the  altar,  and  stepping  to  the  front  of  the 
sanctuary,  began  the  opening  words  of  the 
mass.  He  had  not  finished  the  first  sentence, 
when  a  dull  roar  like  distant  thunder  blotted 
out  the  rest  of  his  words.  A  threatening  quiver 
ran  through  the  building,  and  the  candle 
flames  before  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin  wavered. 
One  of  the  tall,  silver  candlesticks,  placed  too 
near  the  edge  of  the  altar,  fell  over  and  the 
flame  went  out  in  smoke.  Silence  reigned 
for  a  hundredth  part  of  a  moment.  The  peo 
ple  on  the  pavement  did  not  stir,  and  Padre 
Vicente  began  again  the  solemn  words  of  the 
mass. 

Suddenly,  without  further  warning,  a  deaf 
ening  roar  like  the  thunder  of  numberless  can 
non  rent  the  air,  and  instantly  the  solid,  stone 
walls  of  the  building  reeled  in  the  grip  of  a 
terrific  earthquake  shock.  With  a  horrible 
noise  of  grinding  stones  and  falling  mortar, 
the  splendid  bell  tower  came  crashing  through 


The  King's  Highway  37 

the  vaulted  dome  in  the  roof,  and  sent  the 
whole  mass  of  masonry  down  upon  the  kneel 
ing  worshipers  on  the  pavement.  The  walls 
of  the  sanctuary  stood  firm,  however,  and  the 
shock  passed  as  quickly  as  it  had  come. 

A  mist  floated  before  the  eyes  of  Padre 
Vicente.  Scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  did, 
the  priest  stumbled  into  the  sacristy.  There 
he  met  the  frightened  gaze  of  Padre  Mateo, 
who  began  to  sob  and  fall  to  his  knees.  Then 
Padre  Vicente's  vision  cleared.  Breathing  a 
muttered  prayer,  he  seized  his  brother  priest 
by  the  arm  and  dragged  him  into  the  open  air. 
In  the  sheltered  corner  of  the  padres'  garden, 
the  flowers  bloomed  in  stately  rows,  and  along 
the  tiled  paths  all  was  as  if  death  and  destruc 
tion  were  not  holding  sway  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wall. 

Praying  as  they  went,  the  two,  priests  bent 
their  trembling  steps  toward  the  main  entrance 
of  the  ruined  church.  From  all  directions 
people  came  running.  Then  followed  one  of 
those  hours  of  horror  that  always  pass  in  the 
wake  of  every  violent  disaster.  Amid  the 
ruins  of  the  splendid  church,  and  the  bodies 
of  the  martyred  dead,  the  priests  and  neo 
phytes  worked  like  demons  to  save  those  who 
still  lived,  pinioned  under  the  fallen  stones. 

And  chief  among  them  all  for  heroism  and 


38  The  King's  Highway 

endurance,  was  Padre  Vicente.  Careless  of 
his  own  danger,  he  labored  under  the  totter 
ing  walls  to  save  his  beloved  people  who  cried 
to  him  from  under  the  broken  stones. 

"O  Lord,  save  Thy  people  and  mine — Thy 
exceeding  great  reward  and  mine !  Do  not  let 
them  all  die — not  all,  O  Lord!"  he  prayed 
imploringly. 

And  when,  after  an  almost  superhuman 
effort,  he  had  rolled  away  the  stone  that  pinned 
the  limp  body  of  old  Rosario  to  the  pavement, 
a  heavy  piece  of  masonry,  dislodged  from 
above  by  the  moving  of  the  stone  below,  fell 
with  terrific  force  against  the  priest's  right  arm 
and  side.  Padre  Vicente  staggered  under  the 
blow,  and  sank  to  his  knees  among  the  broken 
masonry,  his  lips  moving  in  prayer.  When  he 
rose,  his  right  arm  hung  limp  at  his  side,  but 
an  invincible  light  burned  in  his  eyes.  Stoop 
ing  beside  old  Rosario,  he  pillowed  the  head  of 
the  dying  man  on  his  knee,  and,  with  his  left 
hand,  held  the  cross  before  the  fast-dimming 
eyes.  The  old  Indian  did  not  hear  all  the  words 
of  comfort  for  the  dying,  but  when  his  darken 
ing  eyes  looked  up  and  saw  the  face  of  his 
beloved  padre,  a  beatific  smile  illuminated 
his  features,  and  his  spirit  passed  with  a  sigh. 

Gently  Padre  Vicente  shifted  his  limp  burd 
en  to  the  pavement.  He  stooped  to  gather  the 


The  King's  Highway  39 

dead  man  in  his  arms  to  place  him  on  an 
improvised  stretcher  offered  by  two  neophytes, 
then  remembered  his  broken  arm,  and  turned 
away  while  another  performed  the  service. 
For  the  first  time,  tears  broke  from  the  eyes  of 
Padre  Vicente,  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 
No  longer  could  he  take  the  part  of  a  man 
in  the  work,  and  his  heart  was  sorely  tried. 
Hurriedly  he  wiped  away  his  tears,  and  almost 
unconscious  of  the  pain  in  his  arm,  hastened 
to  administer  the  last  rites  to  an  old  woman 
who  had  been  taken  from  the  ruins,  and  who 
lay  breathing  heavily  on  the  ground  outside. 
But,  through  all  that  hour  of  blood  and 
tears  among  the  pathetic  ruins  of  the  church 
he  adored  and  the  dead  bodies  of  the  people 
he  loved,  Padre  Vicente  knew,  with  a  pain 
that  went  through  his  heart  like  a  knife,  that 
more  than  anything  else  to  him  was  the  sight 
of  the  limp  body  of  a  child  in  a  white  robe, 
that  old  Pablo  had  carried  away  over  the  plaza. 
Padre  Vicente  had  found  the  child  when  he 
had  first  entered  the  church,  lying  where, 
struck  by  a  flying  fragment,  he  had  fallen 
over  the  cross  he  carried.  The  priest  had 
stooped  and  unwrapped  the  little  fingers  that 
still  clung  to  the  tall,  silver  handle.  He  had 
placed  the  still  warm  body  in  the  out-stretched 
arms  of  old  Pablo — silently,  as  the  old  man 


40  The  King's  Highway 

had  placed  the  child  in  his  own  arms  but  a 
few  years  before.  The  priest  was  not  sure 
that  life  had  gone  from  the  little  body,  but 
he  feared  that  the  child  was  dead.  His  grief 
was  terrible  and,  with  swift  self  reproach,  he 
blamed  himself  that  this  child  should  mean 
more  to  him  than  all  the  people  that  God 
had  given  him  to  watch  over. 

After  a  while  the  tumult  among  the  ruins 
grew  less.  The  dead  and  wounded  were 
carried  one  by  one  into  the  courtyard,  until 
finally  they  were  all  gone.  Padres  Luis  and 
Mateo  went  with  them,  but  Padre  Vicente 
begged  to  be  left  alone  for  a  little  while.  For 
a  moment  he  stood  looking  with  dazed  eyes 
at  the  broken  walls  and  the  great  hole  in  the 
roof  that  let  the  light  of  heaven  into  the  sanct 
uary.  A  death-like  silence  brooded  where  the 
cries  of  the  dying  had  sounded  such  a  short 
time  before. 

Padre  Vicente's  brain  reeled  for  a  moment, 
and  he  put  one  hand  to  his  head. 

"Dead — all  dead,"  he  muttered  as  if  in  a 
dream.  Then  he  sat  down  on  a  broken  pilas 
ter  and  tried  to  think.  Was  it  because  he 
was  a  wretched  failure,  that,  after  giving  up 
all — riches  and  friends  and  love  for  the  sake 
of  the  cross,  the  loss  of  one  child  that  had 
happened  into  his  life  should  mean  more  than 


The  King's  Highivay  41 

the  destruction  of  his  church  and  the  death  of 
his  flock?  His  spirit  was  as  water  within  him, 
and  he  bent  his  head  in  silent,  agonized  prayer. 

"Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  Lord,  for  I  am 
human,"  he  prayed.  "I  heard  when  Thy  Word 
said  that  there  is  no  man  that  hath  left  house 
or  brethren  or  sister  or  father  or  mother  or 
wife  or  children  or  lands  for  My  sake  and  the 
gospel's,  but  he  shall  receive  an  hundredfold, 
and  in  the  world  to  come,  eternal  life.  I  heard, 
and  I  left  all  for  Thy  sake,  and  it  was  all  made 
up  to  me — all  that  and  more.  Thy  grace  has 
been  sufficient  for  me  until  now — O  Lord, 
give  Thy  servant  strength  in  this  hour  of 
trial !" 

Then  he  lifted  his  head  and  ceased  praying. 
Still  there  floated  before  his  eyes  the  vision 
of  the  limp  body  of  little  Miguel  as  he  had 
lain  only  a  few  hours  before,  prostrate  on 
the  silver  cross.  Was  the  child  dead,  or  did 
he  live?  If  he  were  dead,  God  had  taken  him 
for  His  own.  If  he  lived — the  priest  shut  his 
eyes  for  a  moment  as  if  in  pain,  but  it  was  not 
his  broken  arm  that  hurt  him  then.  Perhaps 
God  had  taken  him  if  he  were  alive.  With  a 
feeling  of  great  reverence,  Padre  Vicente 
remembered  how  the  child  had  come  to  him 
from  the  very  gate  of  death,  as  it  were.  He 
recalled  with  a  joy  painful  in  its  sweetness, 


42  The  King's  Highway 

how  he  had  loved  the  child — for  more  than 
six  years  the  little  one  had  been  the  very  apple 
of  his  eye.  The  other  padres  had  always  said 
that  the  boy  was  surely  destined  for  the  priest 
hood — that  his  miraculous  rescue  from  the 
waves  and  his  sudden  advent  into  the  very 
sanctuary  of  Holy  Church  could  not  mean 
anything  else.  Padre  Vicente  had  pondered 
upon  the  manner  of  the  child's  coming  even 
more  than  had  the  others,  and  had  loved  him 
more — the  child  seemed  in  a  peculiar  way  to 
belong  to  him.  Yet  he  had  not  said  anything 
of  giving  him  to  the  priesthood.  There  would 
be  time  to  determine  that,  he  thought,  when 
the  child  was  old  enough  to  decide  for  himself. 
But,  though  the  priest  had  never  wholly  ad 
mitted  it  to  himself,  there  had  been  another 
reason  for  his  silence.  Always  there  had  lurk 
ed  in  the  background  the  specter  of  seculariza 
tion — of  dispossession — and  perhaps  a  love 
less  old  age  in  some  far  country.  And,  beside 
this,  all  unowned  to  himself,  there  had  lingered 
the  thought  of  an  old  age  not  loveless  if  the 
boy,  unbound  by  priestly  vows,  were  with  him 
to  love  and  to  be  loved.  Miguel  to  be  all  his 
— all  his!  Padre  Vicente  had  given  his  own 
life?  Was  not  that  enough? 

A   smothered   cry   escaped   the   lips   of  the 
priest  as  he  saw  clearly  for  the  first  time  the 


The  King's  Highway  43 

purport  of  his  unacknowledged  thought.  He 
had  been  putting  his  will  before  the  will  of 
God  Who  had  surely  set  His  seal  upon  the 
child  to  make  him  His  own — dead  or  alive. 
Like  a  flash  there  came  to  the  priest  the 
words;  "and  he  that  loveth  son  or  daughter 
more  than  Me  is  not  worthy  of  Me."  He  had 
left  all  once — but  once  was  not  enough.  For 
years,  secure  in  the  joy  of  service,  he  had 
looked  upon  the  pain  of  sacrifice  as  something 
past  and  gone,  for  to  Padre  Vicente  personal 
hardship  had  meant  nothing.  He  had  seen 
silver  watches  and  two-wheeled  ox-carts  taken 
away  from  the  friars  by  the  padre  presidente, 
who  was  always  jealous  of  the  sanctity  of  the 
vow  of  poverty.  Neither  trinkets  nor  the  lux 
ury  of  wheels  meant  anything  to  Padre  Vi 
cente,  but  love  meant  a  great  deal.  Was  the 
love  of  a  little  child  a  temptation  of  the  flesh? 
Perhaps — if  it  went  against  the  will  of  God.  It 
might  be  that  the  good  God  had  taken  the 
child  away  as  the  kind  padre  presidente  had 
taken  the  baubles  from  his  monks — for  the 
good  of  the  soul. 

Rising  from  his  seat  on  the  broken  pilaster, 
Padre  Vicente,  strong  man  that  he  was,  tot 
tered  as  he  made  his  way  over  the  debris 
toward  the  altar,  crying  in  the  bitterness  of 
his  soul : 


44  The  King's  Highway 

"Thou  knowest,  O  Lord,  that  I  am  not 
worthy  to  serve  Thee!  But  take  not  the  life 
of  the  child  because  of  my  sin !" 

Then,  flinging  himself  on  his  face  before  the 
altar  where  all  the  candles  had  gone  out,  he 
tried  to  pray.  But  all  that  would  come  to  his 
lips  were  the  words  sung  in  an  uncertain, 
childish  treble  along  with  stronger  voices  only 
a  few  hours  ago: 

"O  Lord,  save  Thy  people  and  bless  Thine 
heritage : 

Govern  them  and  lift  them  up  forever!" 

Conscious  of  the  meaning  of  the  prayer  in 
his  own  heart,  the  priest  repeated  the  words 
again  and  again,  and  the  peace  of  God,  that 
passeth  all  understanding,  crept  into  his  soul. 
At  last  he  rose  to  his  feet,  his  face  glorified. 
Then,  as  though  speaking  to  One  close  at  his 
side,  he  said  softly: 

"Again  I  give  Thee  Thine  own.  Dead  or 
alive,  the  child  is  Thine." 

Reverently  closing  the  door  behind  him, 
Padre  Vicente  left  the  church  as  he  had  early 
that  morning,  by  way  of  the  sacristy.  All 
was  peace  in  the  padres'  garden,  and  now  for 
the  first  time,  the  priest  knew  that  his  arm 
gave  him  great  pain.  Hastening  into  the 
cloister,  he  found  Padre  Luis,  who  set  the 
broken  bone  and  bound  it  up,  wondering,  as 


The  King's  Highway  45 

he  did  so,  at  the  strange  light  on  his  brother's 
face.  But  of  that  matter  Padre  Vicente  vouch 
safed  not  one  word,  nor  did  he  ask  concerning 
the  child.  Instead,  he  asked  about  the  wound 
ed  neophytes,  and  when  Padre  Luis  told  him 
that  they  were  calling  for  him,  he  would  not 
rest  until  he  had  ministered  to  them. 

After  a  time,  old  Maria  came  to  where  Padre 
Vicente  sat  in  the  courtyard  beside  a  man 
whose  hurts  gave  him  great  pain.  Looking 
at  the  padre's  arm  in  splints,  and  then  at  the 
glorified  expression  on  his  face,  the  good 
woman  bowed  low  and  crossed  herself. 

"The  child  is  awake  and  calls  for  the  Padre 
Vicente,"  she  said  in  an  awed  tone. 

The  expression  on  the  priest's  face  did  not 
change.  He  rose  and  went  with  the  old 
woman,  whose  reverence  for  him  was  plainly 
that  for  a  saint.  For,  had  not  the  good  padre 
stayed  in  the  ruins  to  pray  after  everyone  else 
had  left?  Had  not  her  own  sister  Juana, 
peering  into  the  church  an  hour  ago  seen  him 
at  the  altar  in  an  attitude  of  devotion?  And 
was  not  his  face  like  that  of  an  angel  even 
now?  Unconsciously  old  Maria  sank  to  her 
knees  before  the  padre  as  he  entered  the  room 
where  the  child  lay.  But  the  priest  took  her 
by  the  hand  and  helped  her  to  her  feet. 


46  The  King's  Highway 

"Daughter,  I  am  human,  even  as  you  are," 
he  said.  "Peace  be  with  you." 

The  old  woman  stepped  back,  her  reverence 
all  the  greater.  For,  was  it  not  divine  humility 
that  made  the  good  padre  speak  thus  ? 

When  he  learned  that  the  boy  was  safe — 
that  not  a  bone  in  his  body  was  broken,  and 
that  his  reason  was  whole — the  priest  knelt  by 
the  child's  bed. 

"Padre— Padre  Vicente,"  said  the  child.  "I 
am  all  safe.  Do  not  feel  sad,  padre." 

But  the  man's  face  was  lifted  to  the  light  of 
the  window  and  the  holy  joy  in  his  eyes  was 
like  that  of  Abraham,  when  he  knew  that  God 
had  not  required  of  him  the  sacrifice  of  his 
son  Isaac. 

"All — everything  that  he  possesses — O  Lord 
— Thy  servant  gives  everything,"  he  whis 
pered. 

The  child  heard. 

"Everything — are  you  talking  about  the 
pearl  in  the  story?"  he  asked  sleepily.  "I 
thought  the  man  paid  for  the  pearl  a  long 
time  ago." 

"No,  Miguelito  mio,"  said  the  padre  stead 
fastly.  "People  find  sometimes  that  to  keep 
their  pearls,  they  must  go  on  paying  for  them 
until  they  die.  And  the  man  I  told  you  about 
is  paying  for  his  pearl  still." 


The  King's  Highway  47 

"Oh !    And  isn't  he  sorry  yet,  padre  ?" 
The  priest  patted  the  child's  hand  gently. 
"No"  he  said.     "No,  Miguel  of  my  heart. 
He  is  not  sorry,  for  he  still  has  the  pearl." 


CHAPTER  IV. 
The  Champion  of  the  Padre 

A 'ROSS  the  green  fields  and  vineyards 
of  little  San  Juan  valley  filed  the 
colorful  procession  of  the  seasons, 
until,  six  years  after  the  tragedy  of  the  Mission, 
a  soft  day  in  early  April  found  Captain  Fer 
nando  Ybarra  and  his  troop  of  cavalrymen 
on  their  way  from  San  Diego  to  Capistrano. 
The  air  was  full  of  the  eternal  promise  of 
spring  that  day,  and  on  either  side  of  the 
King's  Highway,  the  fields  were  lush  with 
grass  and  starred  with  flowers.  All  along  the 
mesas  and  the  broken  spurs  of  the  hills,  gleam 
ed  the  far-flung  glory  of  yellow  and  white  and 
royal  purple ;  and  everywhere  the  red-gold  of 
poppies  spread  the  altar-cloth  of  San  Pascual. 
Surely  the  day,  and  the  gorgeous  pageantry 
of  the  mesas  together  with  the  jangle  of  spurs 
and  the  rasp  of  saddle  leather  on  the  King's 
Highway  were  enough  to  set  anyone's  veins 
on  fire  with  joy;  but  Ybarra,  and  Lieutenant 
Terrazzas  riding  at  the  head  of  their  troops 
felt  none  of  these  things.  Only,  as  they  neared 
San  Juan,  Ybarra  noticed  with  greedy  eyes 


The  King's  Highivay  49 

the  fat  cattle  and  sheep  on  the  hills,  and  the 
rich  wheat-fields  on  the  rolling  mesas. 

"Dios  mio!  To  think  that  all  these  riches 
belong  to  the  lazy  padres  who  eat  their  heads 
off  in  the  Missions!  It  is  a  shame  that  so 
much  land  should  go  to  waste !"  he  exclaimed 
to  his  companion. 

"Santisima!  But  you  are  right!  God  grant 
that  it  may  not  be  so  always!"  returned  Ter- 
razzas  piously. 

The  other  laughed. 

"I  pray  that  the  good  God  may  answer 
your  prayer  soon,"  he  said  with  a  shrug  and 
a  wink.  "Who  knows  but  we  may  all  have  a 
fat  share  before  long?" 

But  Terrazzas,  instead  of  answering,  leaned 
over  and  caught  the  other's  bridle  rein. 

"Look  where  you  are  going,  and  for  the  love 
of  all  the  saints,  tell  me  what  that  is!"  he 
whispered  hoarsely. 

And  then  the  troop  halted  suddenly  where, 
a  little  way  south  of  San  Juan,  the  road  comes 
to  the  foot  of  a  long  hill.  There  in  the  middle 
of  the  road,  outlined  against  the  deep  blue 
of  the  sky  at  the  crest  of  the  hill,  stood  a 
horse  and  his  rider — motionless,  waiting.  The 
horseman  was  only  a  boy,  but  he  held  his 
head  high,  and  he  sat  his  horse  like  a  king. 


50  The  King's  Highway 

Ybarra  took  a  sharp  look  at  the  proud 
figure,  then  gave  the  order  to  go  ahead. 

"It  is  only  a  boy — but,  Madre  de  Dios,  he 
gave  me  a  fright,"  he  remarked  to  Terrazzas  as 
the  troop  walked  their  horses  up  the  hill. 

"Caramba!  But  he  sits  his  horse  so  like 
a  man,  and  he  might  have  been — " 

"Pico  Juarez,  with  a  troop  of  horsemen 
waiting  over  the  hill,"  said  Ybarra  jocosely, 
and  rode  on  up  the  slope. 

But  the  boy  at  the  crest  did  not  make  way 
for  the  troop.  Instead,  he  lifted  his  right  arm 
in  a  commanding  gesture. 

"Halt!"  he  cried  in  a  clear  voice. 

Scarcely  knowing  why  he  did  so,  Ybarra 
reined  in  his  mount,  and  the  cavalcade  came 
to  an  abrupt  stop. 

"Who  are  you,  and  where  are  you  going?" 
asked  the  boy,  without  budging  an  inch  from 
his  original  position. 

A  spirit  of  banter  seized  hold  of  Ybarra, 
and  doffing  his  hat  he  bowed  low. 

"I  am  Captain  Fernando  Ybarra,  and  these 
are  my  soldiers.  We  are  on  our  way  to  San 
Juan  Capistrano." 

"Do  the  padres  know  that  you  are  coming?" 
asked  the  child. 

"They  have  been  commanded  by  the  Cover- 


The  King's  Highway  51 

nor  to  quarter  us  until  further  orders,"  answer 
ed  Ybarra  politely. 

"Then  you  may  pass,"  he  said  graciously, 
and  wheeling  his  horse,  he  fell  into  line  at 
Ybarra's  left  bridle  rein. 

"And  who  are  you,  if  I  may  venture  to  ask  ?" 
inquired  Ybarra,  glancing  curiously  at  the 
boy's  handsome  features,  well-worn  home 
spun  suit,  and  the  spirited  horse  he  rode  so 
well. 

"I  am  Don  Miguel  de  Dios  Artillaga,  and  I 
live  at  the  Mission  with  my  padre,"  said  the 
boy  with  dignity. 

"And  what  are  you  doing  here,  most  worthy 
Don  Miguel?"  went  on  Ybarra. 

Miguel  shot  the  other  a  swift  glance  from 
under  dark  brows,  as  if  he  suspected  him  of 
making  fun. 

"I  am  watching  the  King's  Highway,"  he 
said  proudly.  "It  is  well  for  you  that  you 
halted  when  you  did,  or  I  should  not  have  let 
you  pass." 

Ybarra  made  no  answer,  but  began  chewing 
his  mustachios  at  a  furious  rate.  The  boy 
looked  at  him  suspiciously. 

"Why  do  you  chew  the  ends  of  your  mus 
tachios  that  way?"  he  demanded. 

"It  is  a  habit  that  I  have  sometimes,"  said 


52  The  King's  Highway 

Ybarra  in  a  queer  voice,  and  Terrazzas  choked 
with  laughter. 

"It  is  a  very  bad  habit,  and  you  had  better 
try  to  cure  it,"  said  little  Miguel.  "What  is 
that  other  man  laughing  at?"  he  queried 
sharply. 

"He  is  not  laughing,  he  is  choking,"  said 
Ybarra,  with  a  wink  to  the  man  on  his  right. 

"Is  that  a  habit  too?"  inquired  the  child  in 
nocently.  "If  it  is,  it  is  a  very  bad  one.  Quit 
gnawing  your  mustachios  that  way  I  don't 
like  it." 

"Are  you  going  to  be  a  soldier  when  you 
grow  to  be  a  man,  Don  Miguel?"  asked 
Ybarra,  changing  the  subject  suddenly. 

"A  soldier?  Santa  Maria,  no!"  exclaimed 
the  boy.  "I  am  going  to  be  a  priest." 

"Vilgate  Dios!  You  a  priest — you  who  sit 
your  horse  like  a  general  of  armies !  How  can 
that  be?" 

"The  devil  and  the  saints  know  that  it  is 
true!"  ejaculated  Miguel  piously.  Then  he 
added :  "and  Padre  Vicente  says  it  must  be 
true  because  San  Miguel  saved  me  from  the 
waves." 

"Aha!"  sneered  Ybarra.  "I  thought  it  was 
the  padres  who  put  the  idea  into  your  head. 
Who  would  be  a  fat  devil  of  a  priest  when 
he  could  be  anything  else?" 


The  King's  Highway  53 

The  boy  turned  upon  him  in  a  sudden  fury. 

"Take  that  back — you  cursed  dog  of  a 
soldier!  Take  back  those  words  you  said!" 
he  cried,  his  face  white  with  rage. 

Ybarra  affected  surprise. 

"What  do  you  mean,  boy?"  he  asked 
haughtily. 

"That  the  padres  are  better  men  than  you 
know  anything  about — lying  son  of  the  devil 
that  you  are!"  shrieked  Miguel.  "My  padre 
could  whip  ten  like  you !" 

"Dios  mio!  What  a  little  coyote  it  is!" 
sniffed  Ybarra,  growing  angry  in  his  turn. 
"Let  your  dog  of  a  padre  try  to  whip  me  if  he 
likes !  He  will  not  find  it  easy  work,  I  can 
tell  you!" 

Miguel  looked  sullenly  at  the  man  by  his 
side.  His  rage  was  over,  but  a  cold  hate 
gleamed  in  his  dark  eyes. 

"You  should  have  been  here  last  Sunday," 
he  said  in  a  scornful  voice.  "Juan  Mendez, 
a  soldier  twice  as  big  as  you  are,  from  the 
presidio  at  San  Diego,  was  drunk.  He  walked 
into  the  church  after  mass  and  insulted  my 
padre — Padre  Vicente.  Padre  Vicente  said 
nothing  when  the  man's  words  were  all  for 
him,  but  when  the  dog  spat  at  the  foot  of  the 
holy  altar — Santisima!  But  you  should  have 
been  there  to  see!" 


54  The  King's  Highway 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Ybarra,  curious  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"Well  may  you  ask  what  was  it,"  returned 
the  boy  proudly.  "Padre  Vicente  gave  the  man 
one  blow  with  his  fist — a  golpe  such  as  you 
have  never  seen!  The  man  is  in  bed  yet,  and 
the  padre  prays  for  his  recovery." 

"Santa  Maria  de  Dios!  What  a  padre  it  is!" 
mocked  Ybarra.  "We  must  be  careful  what 
we  say,  Terrazzas,  in  this  priest's  hole !" 

"Yes,  and  be  careful  what  you  say  now  to 
the  boy,"  growled  Terrazzas,  with  a  scowl  on 
his  dark  face.  "You  will  get  us  all  in  a  pretty 
mess  someday,  with  your  sharp  tongue." 

But  little  Miguel,  digging  the  spurs  into  the 
glossy  sides  of  his  mount,  left  the  captain  and 
his  troop,  and  dashed  ahead  on  the  road  to 
the  Mission.  Tossing  the  bridle  rein  over  his 
horse's  head,  he  slipped  from  the  saddle,  and 
burst  into  the  quiet  inclosure  of  the  apple 
orchard  where  Padre  Vicente  was  at  work 
among  the  blossoming  trees.  Then  he  threw 
his  arms  around  the  priest's  neck,  and  sobbed 
out  his  story  against  the  man's  rough  gown. 

"Do  not  cry,  Miguelito  mio,"  said  the  padre 
gently.  "Keep  away  from  the  man  while  he  is 
here.  Say  nothing  to  him,  and  he  will  not 
bother  you." 

"Yes,  but — but  he  said  that  you — that  you 


The  King's  Highway  55 

— he  called  you  a — something  terrible !"  sobbed 
Miguel. 

"I  know — I  know,  but  never  mind  him," 
said  the  priest  tenderly.  "He  does  not  know 
any  better.  Promise  me  that  you  will  not 
get  into  any  more  quarrels  with  the  man. 
Promise,  Miguel."  Even  in  his  tenderness, 
Padre  Vicente  was  stern,  and  the  child  looked 
up  wonderingly  through  his  tears. 

"I  hate  to  do  it,  but  I  promise,"  he  said. 

"That  is  my  good  Miguel,"  said  Padre  Vi 
cente.  Then  he  lifted  his  head  as  the  clatter 
of  hoofs  and  the  jangle  of  harness  came  to 
his  ears. 

"Run  away  nifio,  while  I  go  to  meet  the 
soldiers,"  he  said  gravely. 

Padre  Vicente  hurried  through  the  orchard 
toward  the  cloisters,  and  little  Miguel  walked 
slowly  over  to  the  corner  of  an  adobe  wall 
where  he  found  old  Pablo,  and  related  to  him 
his  morning's  adventure. 

"And  if  I  had  not  promised,  I  should  strike 
that  man  across  the  face!"  he  cried,  as  he 
finished.  "Santisima,  but  he  is  wicked  to  speak 
of  my  padre  like  that!" 

"Si,"  agreed  old  Pablo,  "he  must  be  a  very 
devil  to  speak  so!  But  the  good  God  will 
punish  him,  Don  Miguel,  God  will  punish 
him." 


56  The  King's  Highway 

"I  hope  so,"  said  the  child  fervently.  "Let 
us  pray  that  He  will." 

Whereupon,  the  old  Indian  took  a  rosary  of 
worn,  wooden  beads  from  his  neck,  and 
touched  the  cross  reverently. 

"Let  us  rather  say  a  rosary  for  the  good 
of  the  man's  soul,"  he  said.  "The  good  God 
knows  that  he  needs  all  the  prayers  that  he 
can  get!  And  that  would  please  the  padre 
more,"  he  added,  with  the  wisdom  of  age. 

"Muy  bien,"  assented  Miguel  reluctantly, 
"but  all  the  same,  Pablo,  I  had  a  good  deal 
rather  the  devil  would  take  him." 


CHAPTER  V. 
Arms  and  a  Man 

IT  was  the  hour  before  dawn.  Long  before 
the  bells  rang  for  sunrise  mass  that  morn 
ing,  Padre  Vicente  had  risen  from  his  bed 
and  was  pacing  the  tiled  paths  of  the  Mission 
garden.  Far  in  the  eastern  sky  the  white 
star  of  morning  still  quivered  faintly,  and  the 
cool  dusk  of  night  lingered  yet  in  the  fragrant 
recesses  of  the  old  garden.  All  the  world  was 
asleep — cloister  and  rancheria  alike  lay  silent 
in  the  dim  light  of  early  day.  Only,  some 
where  in  the  orange  groves  to  the  east,  a  sleep 
less  mockingbird  chanted  softly  to  his  mate. 
After  a  time,  the  priest  halted  in  his  slow 
pacing  of  the  tiled  path,  and  stood  silent,  his 
face  toward  the  east.  He  might  have  been  an 
Aztec  sun  worshiper  as  he  stood  there,  his 
eager  eyes  lifted  to  where  the  first  faint  glim 
mer  of  day  showed  above  the  eastern  hills. 
But  Padre  Vicente  was  not  watching  for  the 
sun.  He  was  praying. 

To  one  unaccustomed  to  the  ways  of  the 
Mission,  San  Juan  Capistrano  would  have 
shown  little  change  that  morning  from  what 
it  had  for  years.  True,  the  splendid  stone 


58  The  King's  Highway 

arches  of  the  church  had  never  been  completely 
restored  since  the  earthquake,  and  the  beautiful 
bell  tower  was  gone  forever.  But  the  broken 
walls  had  been  carefully  repaired  with  adobe 
bricks;  and  Padre  Vicente  himself  had  helped 
to  hang  the  four  bells  from  the  fallen  tower 
in  four  carved  belfries  built  especially  for 
them  in  a  niched  wall  west  of  the  garden. 
And,  twice  each  day,  when  the  bells  rang, 
swarms  of  dark-skinned  worshipers  from  the 
teeming  valley  filled  the  church  as  of  old.  For 
three  years,  old  Padre  Mateo  had  been  sleeping 
peacefully  under  the  pavement  of  his  beloved 
church,  but  his  place  in  the  Mission  was  more 
than  filled  by  a  young  and  energetic  brother 
of  Saint  Francis,  who  went  by  the  name  of 
Padre  Esteban. 

No,  it  was  none  of  these  things  that  troubled 
the  heart  of  Padre  Vicente  as  he  faced  the 
dawn  that  morning.  Nor  did  the  fact  itself 
that  at  the  moment  a  body  of  rough  Mexican 
cavalrymen  slept  under  the  tiled  roof  of  the 
Mission  trouble  him.  It  was  not  the  fact,  but 
the  significance  of  the  fact.  For  all  the  rifts 
and  cross-currents  in  the  tidal  wave  of  revo 
lution  that  was  sweeping  over  Mexico  were 
felt  in  Alta  California  as  well.  Like  a  hen, 
jealous  for  her  brood  and  scanning  the  air  for 
hawks,  Padre  Vicente  yearned  over  his  child- 


The  King's  Highway  59 

like  people,  watched  the  signs  of  the  times,  and 
was  afraid.  Even  now  a  cold  terror  clutched 
at  his  heart  as  he  thought  of  the  hundreds  of 
unsuspecting  people  asleep  among  the  plenty 
that  had  been  theirs  so  long.  Any  day  the 
blow  might  fall  that  would  shatter  the  whole 
structure,  and  what  could  his  poor  people  do 
then?  That  was  the  question  that  long  had 
been  torturing  the  heart  of  the  priest. 

With  a  gesture  of  entreaty,  he  lifted  his 
arms  to  the  sky.  The  silver  beads  of  his 
rosary  slipped  through  his  fingers,  and  the 
ivory  Christ  gleamed  white  in  the  dusk. 

"Be  Thou  not  far  from  me,  O  my  God,"  he 
breathed.  "Keep  Thine  heritage  from  the 
snare  of  the  spoiler,  Thy  people  from  the 
power  of  the  dog."  As  he  prayed,  his  cowl 
slipped  back,  baring  his  tonsured  head  to  the 
dawn.  The  eyes  were  pleading,  but  a  look  of 
hope  marked  the  strong  features.  "Let  me 
die,"  he  whispered,  "but  save  Thy  people/' 

Then,  as  the  thought  of  the  boy  Miguel 
came  to  him,  an  expression  of  holy  joy  lighted 
up  his  face.  When  great  souls  like  Padre 
Vicente  have  given  their  all,  they  do  not  wish 
it  back  again.  The  years  since  his  struggle 
in  the  ruins  on  the  day  of  the  earthquake  had 
brought  the  priest  no  bitterness,  but  only  joy. 
With  holy  ferver  he  had  pictured  to  himself 


60  The  King's  Highway 

the  child  upon  whom  God  had  set  His  seal, 
a  strong  man,  an  apostle  of  Holy  Church, 
sent  to  lead  her  on  to  victory  here  in  New 
Spain.  He  would  be  like  a  young  graft  set 
in  the  old  stem  of  the  Mission  structure, 
thought  Padre  Vicente,  and  through  him  the 
Church  would  be  saved  her  rightful  fruitage. 

"Let  the  boy  be  Thy  messenger  before  Thy 
face."  he  prayed  joyously,  his  face  set  eagerly 
toward  the  dawn,  "and  Thy  servant  shall  have 
peace." 

The  faint,  gray  light  along  the  eastern  hills 
deepened  into  the  rosy  flush  of  widening  day, 
and  blotted  out  the  radiance  of  the  quivering 
star.  Then,  from  all  the  vines  and  trees,  and 
from  under  all  the  eaves,  came  the  sleepy 
twitter  of  waking  birds ;  and  from  the  cloisters 
the  stir  of  waking  human  creatures.  The  day 
was  at  hand,  with  all  its  manifold  duties  and 
dangers,  but,  more  than  all,  its  chance  for 
holy  service.  Padre  Vicente  still  faced  the 
east,  the  cold  ivory  of  the  carved  Christ 
pressed  to  his  lips  now.  Then  came  foot 
steps  on  the  other  side  of  the  belfried  wall,  and 
instantly  the  voice  of  the  Angelus  sounded 
in  the  still  dawn. 

"Father,  I  thank  Thee  that  Thou  hast  heard 
me,"  murmured  the  priest,  and,  turning  away 
from  the  scarlet  splendor  of  morning,  set  his 


The  King's  Highivay  61 

face  resolutely  toward  the  Mission  and  his 
people.  The  day  had  come. 

When  mass  was  over  that  morning,  and 
the  day's  work  begun,  the  sun  was  still  low  in 
the  east.  Falling  through  the  corridor  arches 
on  the  west  side  of  the  courtyard,  the  sun 
light  slanted  full  across  the  long  seat  where 
Miguel  sat,  busy  at  his  daily  task.  In  the 
deep-recessed  window  behind  the  seat,  was 
an  old  silver  inkstand.  Into  this  the  boy 
dipped  his  quill  from  time  to  time,  and  mean 
while  traced  laboriously  on  a  sheet  of  paper, 
a  score  from  the  leather-bound  chant-book 
open  on  the  seat  beside  him. 

"O  santisimo  cuerpo  de  Jesus  sacramentido." 

Slowly,  in  a  sing-song  tone,  the  boy  chanted 
the  words  he  had  printed.  So  absorbed  was  he 
in  what  he  was  doing,  that  he  did  not  hear 
the  clank  of  spurs  on  the  square-tiled  floor, 
but  when  a  shadow  fell  across  his  score,  he 
looked  up. 

"May  I  sit  down,  Don  Miguel?"  asked 
Antonio  Terrazzas. 

Something  in  the  man's  frank,  winning 
smile  must  have  pleased  the  boy,  for  he  pushed 
aside  the  chant-book  to  make  more  room  on 
the  seat. 

"Please  sit  down,"  he  said  with  dignity, 
then  added  naively :  "you  are  not  the  man  who 


62  The  King's  Highway 

spoke  evil  of  my  padre,  so  I  may  talk  with 
you." 

Antonio  Terrazzas  sat  down  carelessly,  un 
covering  his  head  as  he  did  so.  He  was  a 
young  man,  not  more  than  twenty-one,  rather 
good  looking  in  a  bold  way,  with  deep-set, 
black  eyes,  heavy  brows,  and  a  quantity  of 
dark  hair  that  curled  about  his  face.  Miguel 
thought  him  extremely  handsome,  and  glanced 
enviously  at  the  heavy,  steel  spurs  he  wore, 
and  the  brace  of  pistols  at  his  belt. 

"What  are  you  writing  there?"  questioned 
the  lieutenant,  by  way  of  polite  conversation. 

"Oh,  that  is  the  chant-book,"  said  Miguel 
without  enthusiasm.  "I  am  copying  a  score 
for  the  choir." 

"Do  you  like  it — to  copy  songs?"  inquired 
Terrazzas  idly. 

The  child  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Well,  not  particularly,"  he  answered  hon 
estly.  "But  it  is  my  work.  You  know  that  the 
saints  have  work  for  everyone  to  do." 

Terrazzas  smiled. 

"Read  me  what  you  have  written,"  he  said. 

"You  would  not  care  to  hear  it — it  is  'para 
alzar  la  Hostia,' "  said  Miguel.  "You  have 
heard  it  many  times." 

"So  I  have,"  agreed  Terrazzas  absently.  He 
knew  that  the  boy  had  been  chosen  for  the 


The  King's  Highway  63 

priesthood,  and  he  was  somewhat  curious  to 
know  his  attitude  in  the  matter.  Antonio 
Terrazzas  himself  was  of  gentle  blood,  and 
had  been  brought  up  in  the  faith ;  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  had  never  given  the  Church 
more  than  a  passing  thought.  Of  course  there 
were  always  priests,  just  as  there  were  always 
doctors  and  lawyers ;  but  why  any  man  should 
care  to  enter  holy  orders  had  not  occurred  to 
him. 

"And  so  you  are  going  to  be  a  priest,"  he 
said  presently,  crossing  his  legs  the  while,  and 
stretching  them  out  in  the  sun. 

"Si,"  said  the  boy  quietly,  "when  I  am  old 
enough." 

"Did  you  choose  it  yourself,  or  did  the 
padres  choose  it  for  you?"  pursued  Terraz 
zas  after  a  moment. 

The  boy  looked  up  quickly. 

"The  holy  saints  chose  me,"  he  answered 
with  dignity.  "That  is  what  the  padres  say." 

What  the  saints  said  and  what  the  padres 
said  might  have  been  all  one  to  Terrazzas,  but 
of  that  lack  of  faith  he  wisely  said  nothing. 

"Then  I  suppose  you  would  rather  be  a 
priest  than  anything  else?" 

"'Yes,"  assented  Miguel,  "since  that  is  what 
the  saints  have  said."  Then,  after  a  moment 
he  added :  "I  used  to  want  to  be  a  soldier 


64  The  King's  Highway 

and  ride  on  the  King's  Highway.  But  that 
was  a  long  time  ago,  and  I  was  young  then." 
Terrazzas  smiled  at  that,  but  the  child  did  not 
see.  "Before  the  earthquake,"  Miguel  went 
on,  "Padre  Vicente  did  not  say  that  I  might 
not  be  a  soldier,  though  the  other  padres  did. 
But  after  the  saints  saved  me  from  death  in 
the  earthquake,  Padre  Vicente  too  said  that 
the  good  God  had  surely  chosen  me.  So  that 
is  the  way  of  it." 

Terrazzas  looked  meditatively  at  the  strong 
body  and  dark,  handsome  face  of  the  boy  on 
the  seat  beside  him. 

"You  were  not  meant  for  a  priest,"  he  said 
slowly.  "You  were  meant  for  a  soldier! 
Santisima!  But  you  look  as  if  you  had  fight 
ing  blood  in  your  veins!" 

A  strange  look  passed  across  the  boy's  face. 

"Dios  sabe,"  he  said  calmly:  "Perhaps  I 
have/' 

"How  is  that?"  inquired  Terrazzas  curiously. 
"Don't  you  know?" 

"No,"  said  Miguel  simply,  "you  see  it  was 
like  this.  Twelve  years  ago  next  San  Miguel, 
my  father  and  mother  and  I  were  wrecked 
in  a  little  boat  on  the  coast  below  here.  They 
were  both  killed,  and  I  was  saved  by  a  miracle. 
No  one  ever  knew  where  I  came  from." 

Terrazzas    sat    up    suddenly,    and    his    eyes 


The  King's  Highway  65 

sparkled.  He  was  young,  and  the  glamor  of 
things  had  not  all  rubbed  off  yet. 

"Santa  Maria!"  he  cried,  "but  you  may  be 
the  heir  to  a  noble  estate!  You  should  not 
be  a  priest,  Don  Miguel — your  people  may  be 
looking  for  you." 

A  gleam  shot  from  the  boy's  eyes,  and  pass 
ed  as  quickly  as  it  had  come.  He  had  thought 
of  that  before. 

"I  am  nearly  thirteen  years  old  now,"  he 
said  doggedly,  "and  they  have  not  come  yet." 

"But  that  is  nothing — they  may  come  any 
day!"  returned  Terrazzas.  "You  should  not 
waste  your  time — thinking  they  will  never 
come,"  he  finished  rather  lamely,  remembering 
Ybarra's  disrespect  of  the  day  before.  Then 
he  added  cautiously:  "Of  course  it  is  a  good 
thing  to  be  a  priest." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  child  readily,  "it  is.  And 
if  one  could  only  be  a  priest  like  Padre  Vicente, 
it  would  be  glorious !  When  the  sun  comes 
through  the  roof  while  he  is  saying  mass,  he 
looks  like  a  saint — he  is  splendid!  And  the 
sanctuary  is  like  heaven,  so  bright  with  gold 
on  the  walls  that  I  can  hardly  see — sometimes 
I  have  to  shut  my  eyes!  And  the  people — I 
think  they  would  worship  him  on  their  knees 
if  he  would  let  them !  Oh,  he  is  wonderful, 
and  I  love  him !  But  sometimes  I  am  afraid 


66  The  King's  Highway 

I  can  never  be  like  him,"  he  finished  wist 
fully. 

"You  were  fitter  to  be  a  soldier,"  said  Ter- 
razzas  knowingly.  Then  he  drew  from  the 
holster  at  his  belt  a  pistol,  and  held  it  up  in 
the  sun. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  Don  Miguel?" 
he  asked  irrelevantly. 

The  glint  of  polished  steel  caught  the  boy's 
eye,  and  he  held  his  hands  out  eagerly  for  the 
weapon,  while  the  chant-book  slipped  unheed 
ed  to  the  floor. 

"O  let  me  take  it — just  for  a  minute,"  he 
pleaded. 

"Be  careful — it  is  loaded,"  said  Terrazzas, 
and  placed  the  pistol  in  the  boy's  hand. 

With  great  care  the  child  sighted  along  the 
short  barrel,  and  fondled  the  handle  lovingly. 
Then,  with  a  sigh,  he  made  as  if  he  would  re 
store  the  weapon  to  its  owner. 

"It  must  be  fine  to  shoot  with  a  pistol  like 
that.  I  never  have  done  it,"  he  said  wishfully. 

"Then  come  with  me,  and  you  shall  try," 
replied  the  lieutenant. 

Instantly  the  boy  was  on  his  feet. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  he  demanded  eagerly. 

"This  way,"  answered  the  man,  amused  at 
the  child's  unfeigned  delight,  and  together  the 
two  left  the  courtyard  by  a  passage  leading  to 


The  King's  Highway  67 

the  western  corridor.  From  there  they  walked 
southward  around  the  church,  and  halted  per 
haps  a  dozen  yards  away  from  a  group  of  mot 
tled  sycamore  trees. 

"There,"  said  Terrazzas,  pointing  to  a  knot 
on  the  trunk  of  one  of  the  trees  where  a  branch 
had  been  broken  off.  "Do  you  see  that  spot?" 

Miguel  nodded. 

"Muy  bien,"  said  the  man.  "Take  good  aim 
and  hit  the  spot." 

With  a  clear  eye  the  boy  took  aim,  then 
pulled  the  trigger  with  a  steady  hand.  The 
ball  sang  through  the  air  and  buried  itself  in 
the  bark  an  inch  below  the  knot. 

"I  missed!"  he  cried  regretfully.  "Let  me 
try  again,  and  I  will  hit  the  mark !" 

"Here  is  the  other  pistol,"  said  Terrazzas. 
"Try  again." 

Miguel  tried  again,  and  this  time  the  ball 
just  grazed  the  lower  rim  of  the  knot. 

"Almost !"  cried  the  boy  joyously.  "I  know 
I  could  do  it  if  I  only  had  the  chance  to  try 
enough !" 

"You  shall  have  the  chance,"  said  Terazzas, 
generously.  "You  have  an  eye  like  a  hawk.  I 
will  teach  you  to  shoot — if  the  padres  permit," 
he  added. 

"I  know  Padre  Vicente  will  let  me,"  returned 
Miguel,  blissfully.  Then,  at  mention  of  the 


68  The  King's  Highway 

padres,  he  suddenly  remembered  the  neglected 
chant-book  in  the  courtyard. 

"I  must  go  back  to  my  work — I  had  forgot 
ten  it,"  he  said  with  reluctance. 

"Very  well,  then,"  answered  Terrazzas, 
kindly.  "We  shall  meet  some  other  time." 

"Some  other  time,"  echoed  Miguel  happily, 
and  ran  back  to  the  courtyard.  There  he  went 
to  work  again,  diligently  copying  the  score 
from  the  old  chant-book.  But  between  his  eyes 
and  the  page  there  floated  again  the  vision  of 
his  childhood — a  trail  stretching  on  and  on  into 
the  charmed  distance,  and  a  man  with  pistols 
at  his  belt,  mounted  on  a  big,  black  horse,  rid 
ing,  always  riding  on  the  King's  Highway. 
The  seed  sown  no  one  knew  when  or  where 
— by  a  soldier  grandfather  in  Old  Spain,  may 
be  had  been  well  watered  that  morning;  and, 
though  little  Miguel  did  not  know  it,  he  stood 
in  great  danger  of  forgetting  that  it  was  a 
soldier  who  had  insulted  Padre  Vicente. 

The  days  that  followed  were  very  happy 
ones  for  the  little  boy.  For,  in  spite  of  the 
protests  of  Padre  Esteban,  who  was  young  and 
zealous,  Padre  Vicente  gave  his  permisison  for 
Miguel  to  learn  to  shoot.  With  the  wisdom 
born  of  intuition  and  experience,  Padre  Vicente 
knew  that  the  thing  a  child  is  denied  is  usually 
the  thing  he  wants  most.  And  he  did  not  wish 


The  King's  Highway  69 

Miguel  to  choose  the  Narrow  Way  because  he 
was  strictly  forbidden  to  walk  anywhere  else. 
So,  though  he  saw  what  the  companionship  of 
Terazzas  might  mean  to  the  boy,  he  gave  his 
consent  to  it.  The  good  God  would  not  suffer 
His  chosen  one  to  be  turned  aside,  thought  the 
priest,  and  daily  offered  up  strong  prayers  for 
Miguel's  safety. 

Meanwhile,  Miguel  roamed  the  hills  in  com 
pany  with  Terrazzas.  He  learned  to  shoot,  to 
shoulder  a  musket,  and  to  command  imaginary 
armies.  He  was  more  wildly  happy  than  he 
had  ever  been  before,  and  in  a  short  time  he 
came  to  feel  for  Terrazzas  a  love  that 
amounted  almost  to  a  passion.  Under  these 
conditions,  it  was  not  strange  that,  when  the 
boy  carried  the  processional  cross  in  the  church 
the  kneeling  worshipers  were  an  army  in  bat 
tle  array  to  him,  and  the  holy  emblem  he  bore 
was  a  military  standard.  Beaming  with  pride, 
he  would  relate  to  Padre  Vicente  the  soldierly 
exploits  of  Terrazzas,  and  Padre  Vicente 
would  listen  patiently.  It  was  a  good  thing, 
thought  the  priest,  for  the  boy  to  get  an  idea 
of  the  world  from  some  one  outside  monas 
tery  walls.  Padre  Vicente  himself  had  been  a 
man  of  the  world  before  he  had  been  a  priest, 
and  was  the  stronger  for  it  now.  But  he  did 


70  The  King's  Highway 

not  neglect  to  pray  that  all  might  be  for  the 
glory  of  God. 

As  for  Antonio  Terrazzas,  he  had  started 
out  to  amuse  himself,  but,  as  time  went  on,  he 
become  conscious  of  a  growing  tenderness  for 
the  quaint,  little  fellow  who  paid  him  such  sin 
cere  homage.  If  some  one  had  asked  his  mo 
tives  in  the  matter  he  probably  could  not  have 
given  any  direct  answer ;  though  it  may  have 
been  a  certain  love  of  fair  play  that  made  him 
want  to  give  the  child  a  taste  of  life  before  he 
should  take  upon  himself  the  vows  of  a  priest. 
As  was  said  before,  the  glamor  had  not  all 
rubbed  off  things  yet  for  Terrazzas.  At  any 
rate,  when  the  word  came  in  July  that  the 
troops  were  to  go  south  again,  Terrazzas  was 
sincerely  sorry  to  part  with  the  boy. 

"Adios,  Don  Miguel,"  he  said  tenderly,  as  he 
held  the  boy's  hand  in  parting.  "I  shall  never 
forget  you,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  forget  me." 

Miguel  winked  hard.  It  was  not  fitting  that 
the  friend  of  a  soldier  should  shed  tears. 

"Adios,"  he  said  firmly.  "I  shall  never  for- 
get." 

Then,  as  the  troop  clattered  out  of  the  yard 
with  a  great  noise  of  hoofs  and  jangling  har 
ness,  Miguel  ran  after  them  to  the  south  gate 
of  the  Mission  wall,  his  heart  beating  high. 
No,  he  would  never  forget.  How  he  waved 


The  King's  Highway  71 

his  hand,  and  how  he  strained  his  eyes  after 
them ;  forgetful  of  Ybarra,  who  had  insulted 
the  padre,  remembering  only  Terrazzas,  his 
friend!  At  last  the  horsemen  disappeared  as 
they  had  come,  over  the  hill  on  the  King's 
Highway.  Slowly  and  sadly  the  boy  made  his 
way  back  to  the  Mission.  Terrazzas  had  come 
and  gone.  He  might  never  pass  that  way 
again,  but  in  the  heart  of  Miguel  he  had  left 
his  mark  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  VI 
The  Heart  of  Miguel 

A'TER  the  departure  of  Terrazzas  the 
days  passed  very  slowly  for  Miguel. 
He  was  not  so  light-hearted  as  he  had 
been,  and  he  did  not  laugh  so  often.  Padre 
Vicente  saw  this,  and  he  was  troubled. 

"Are  you  tired  of  staying  with  the  old  padre 
now  that  the  good  lieutenant  is  gone,  Miguel- 
ito?"  he  asked  one  day,  as  the  two  sat  on  the 
long  seat  in  the  courtyard. 

Miguel  turned  reproachful  eyes  upon  the 
priest. 

"You  know  that  I  love  you  more  than  any 
one  else  in  all  the  world,"  he  cried  fervently. 
Then,  throwing  his  arms  around  the  man's 
neck,  he  kissed  him  with  a  love  that  was  not 
to  be  doubted. 

But  Padre  Vicente  was  not  to  be  satisfied. 
With  an  anxious  light  in  his  eyes,  he  watched 
the  changing  expressions  on  Miguel's  face,  and 
asked  himself  if  he  had  been  entirely  wise  in 
letting  the  boy  be  with  the  soldier  so  much. 
But  always  he  clung  to  the  conviction  that 
God  had  chosen  Miguel  to  be  the  help  of  the 
Church  in  New  Spain,  and  through  the  Church, 


The  King's  Highway  73 

the  protection  of  the  helpless  people  of  the 
land.  Surely  God  would  not  allow  His  chosen 
one  to  be  moved.  Meanwhile,  Miguel  was 
thinking  thoughts  he  did  not  dare  to  tell  the 
padre,  and,  boy  that  he  was,  a  struggle  was 
going  on  in  his  soul. 

Then,  on  a  warm  night  in  late  July,  there 
came  to  pass  a  strange  thing.  For  some  unex 
plained  reason,  perhaps  because  the  moonlight 
streaming  into  his  window  was  so  bright, 
Miguel  wakened  suddenly  to  see  a  man  kneel 
ing  at  the  foot  of  his  bed.  The  man's  face  was 
lifted  to  the  light  of  the  window,  and  Miguel 
could  see  that  it  was  Padre  Vicente.  Fas 
cinated  by  the  expression  on  the  face  he  knew 
so  well,  the  boy  could  not  stir,  and  lay  as  if  in 
a  trance.  The  white  glory  of  the  moon  slanted 
through  the  recessed  window,  and  gleamed 
palely  on  the  sculptured  Christ  in  the  hands 
of  the  kneeling  man.  At  first  his  words  were 
inaudible ;  then  they  grew  plainer,  and  Miguel 
understood  what  he  was  saying. 

"Keep  the  people  of  Thine  heritage,  O  Lord, 
and  let  them  not  be  scattered,"  prayed  Padre 
Vicente,  his  strong  face  pale  in  the  white 
moonlight. 

That  prayer  Miguel  knew  of  old.  He  had 
heard  it  on  the  lips  of  the  padre  many  times ; 
and  it  is  to  be  doubted  if  it  would  have  made  a 


74  The  King's  Highway 

very  great  impression  upon  him  now  if  it  had 
not  been  for  what  followed.  The  padre  went 
on,  innocent  of  any  hearer  save  the  One  to 
Whom  he  addressed  his  petition. 

"Send  Thy  Spirit  upon  the  one  I  have  dedi 
cated  to  Thee,"  he  whispered,  "and  grant  that 
he  shall  keep  my  people  safe  from  harm." 
Then  an  expression  of  agonized  pleading 
passed  across  his  face.  "Take  the  boy  for  Thy 
service,  and  let  not  the  heart  of  Thy  servant 
be  broken  in  his  old  age,"  he  prayed  fervently. 
Then  he  dropped  his  head  in  his  hands  and 
was  silent. 

Miguel  lay  motionless  as  a  statue,  but  his 
heart  was  beating  so  that  he  could  scarcely 
breathe.  Never  before  had  he  heard  the  padre 
pray  like  that.  Always  when  Miguel  had 
heard  his  petitions,  they  had  been  for  other 
people,  for  the  Church,  but  never  for  himself. 
But  now  he  prayed  that  his  heart  might  not  be 
broken  in  his  old  age.  And  what  was  it  that 
was  going  to  break  the  padre's  heart?  It  was 
that  Miguel  should  not  enter  the  service  of 
Holy  Church.  With  a  shiver  the  boy  realized 
that.  Padre  Vicente  had  never  told  him  that 
his  heart  would  break  if  he  did  not  choose  to 
become  a  priest.  He  had  said  that  the  saints 
had  chosen  him,  that  the  Church  needed  him, 
but  he  had  never  said  anything  more  personal 


The  King's  Highway  75 

than  that  he  himself  would  be  very  happy  to 
see  Miguel  a  priest.  But  this  was  a  different 
matter — to  break  the  padre's  heart!  The  call 
of  the  King's  Highway  might  lure  Miguel  from 
the  service  of  all  the  Churches  in  Christendom  ; 
but  never,  never  could  it  persuade  him  to  break 
the  heart  of  Padre  Vicente — Padre  Vicente,  the 
man  he  loved  as  no  other  boy  had  ever  loved 
any  other  man,  with  a  passion  amounting  al 
most  to  worship !  No,  it  could  never  make  him 
do  that !  The  boy  was  so  strongly  moved,  that 
he  was  afraid  that  he  would  cry  out  and  disturb 
the  man  who  still  knelt  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 

But,  long  after  the  priest  had  risen  and 
walked  softly  from  the  room,  Miguel  lay  with 
out  moving  a  muscle,  his  face  set  in  strange 
lines.  Then  suddenly  he  fell  to  sobbing,  and 
after  a  time  cried  himself  to  sleep. 

Very  early  in  the  morning  Miguel  woke,  and 
dressing  hurriedly,  went  out  to  find  Padre 
Vicente.  The  priest  was  not  in  his  room,  but 
perhaps  he  wras  in  the  garden.  Miguel  would 
see.  Hastening  along  the  corridor,  he  entered 
the  garden,  when  Padre  Vicente,  coming  out 
of  the  sacristy,  saw  him.  It  was  very  early. 
The  Angelus  had  not  yet  rung,  and  the  priest 
looked  surprised  to  see  the  boy  there  so  soon. 

"Good    morning,    Miguel !"    he    exclaimed. 


76  The  King's  Highway 

"You  are  up  early!  Did  you  want  me?"  A 
bright  smile  illumined  the  padre's  features, 
that  bore  no  trace  of  his  midnight  vigil,  and  the 
boy  marveled.  How  he  loved  the  padre,  and 
what  would  he  not  do  to  please  him ! 

"Padre,"  said  Miguel  adoringly,  "padre,  I 
have  been  thinking.  I  am  thirteen  years  old. 
Is  that  too  young  to  begin  to  study  to  be  a 
priest?  I  should  like  to  learn  some  things 
before  I  go  to  Mexico.  Can  I  begin  now, 
padre?" 

The  look  of  joy  that  overspread  the  priest's 
face  almost  frightened  Miguel.  Placing  his 
arms  about  the  boy's  shoulders,  the  man  gazed 
searchingly  into  his  eyes.  The  look  of  fervent 
devotion  there  would  have  been  enough  to  sat 
isfy  anyone.  Padre  Vicente  did  not  question 
its  object,  and  he  was  satisfied. 

"The  good  God  has  been  very  kind  to  me, 
Miguel,"  he  said,  gently.  "He  has  given  me 
the  desire  of  my  heart.  No,  hijo  mio,  you  are 
not  too  young.  We  will  begin  the  studies  this 
very  day !" 

But,  had  the  padre  known,  the  seed  sown, 
no  one  knew  when  or  where,  and  watered  so 
well  by  the  coming  of  Terrazzas,  was  not  dead. 
Another  was  growing  by  its  side,  and  for  a 
time  it  was  overshadowed ;  but  the  master  pas 
sion  was  not  yet. 


CHAPTER  VII 
The  Way  of  All  the  Earth 

ArREAT  many  things  can  happen  in 
eight  years,  especially  in  a  time  of 
revolution.  And  from  1818  to  1826  a 
great  many  things  did  happen  in  Alta  Califor 
nia.  Every  shock  of  internal  dissension  in 
Mexico  was  felt  there  as  well;  and  the  King's 
Highway,  built  for  the  sandalled  feet  of  friars 
and  the  march  of  the  Mission  guards,  was  a 
byway  now  for  soldier  of  fortune  and  greedy 
politician.  Mexico  was  full  of  wars  and  rumors 
of  wars,  and  the  air  was  thick  with  plots  and 
political  intrigue.  Cunning  schemers  had  their 
eyes  upon  the  fat  of  the  land,  and  the  secular 
ization  of  the  Missions  seemed  imminent. 

Therefore,  when  early  in  1821,  Governor 
Sola  made  public  the  decree  turning  over  the 
Mission  churches  to  the  Mexican  bishop, 
Payeras,  then  padre  presidente,  said  that  he 
was  ready  to  make  the  change.  The  Missions 
were  not  ready,  but  what  difference  did  that 
make?  The  padre  presidente  could  not  do 
anything  else.  However,  when  the  matter  was 
referred  to  the  bishop,  he  said  that  he  already 
had  too  much  to  occupy  his  attention,  and  that 


78  The  King's  Highway 

as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  California 
Franciscans  could  stay  where  they  were. 
Later  in  the  same  year,  Agustin  Fernandez 
de  San  Vicente  came  from  Mexico  to  Monterey 
to  oversee  the  change  in  the  government.  But 
as  no  one  there  seemed  to  care  what  happened 
next,  he  found  nothing  to  worry  about,  and 
proceeded  to  elect  a  new  governor  without 
delay. 

By  1825  the  Mexican  Republic  was  fairly 
well  secured;  and  in  late  October  of  the  same 
year,  Jose  Maria  Echeandia  came  to  California 
to  take  charge  of  the  government.  According 
to  Echeandia,  the  Missions  were  not  ready  to 
secularize  yet;  nor  would  they  be  for  some 
time  to  come.  Thus  secularization  was  de 
ferred  for  a  time.  Yet,  over  the  head  of  every 
loyal  Franciscan  in  Alta  California  it  still  hung 
like  the  sword  of  Damocles,  suspended  by  a 
hair  and  ready  to  fall  at  any  moment. 

The  year  1826  found  things  at  San  Juan 
Capistrano  very  much  as  they  had  been  for 
years.  If  it  was  a  hardship  to  quarter  govern 
ment  troops  and  submit  to  government  requisi 
tions  of  money  and  supplies,  the  padres  learned 
that  there  was  little  use, in  protest.  The  In 
dians  tilled  the  fields  as  before,  and  obeyed  the 
voice  of  the  Mission  bells,  but  since  1812  there 
had  never  been  so  many  of  them.  San  Juan 


The  King's  Highway  79 

Capistrano  was  declining.  The  padres  knew 
this  better  than  any  one  else.  However,  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  remain  faithful ;  and 
this  they  did  to  the  best  of  their  ability. 

Padre  Esteban  had  been  transferred  to  San 
Luis  Rey  late  in  1825,  and  as  yet  no  one  had 
taken  his  place.  As  for  Padre  Vicente,  he  still 
served,  in  company  with  Padre  Luis,  who  was 
now  over  eighty  years  of  age,  and  very  feeble. 
Thus,  responsibility  came  to  bear  more  heavily 
than  ever  upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  Padre 
Vicente ;  and  he  carried  it  as  he  had  always 
carried  all  his  burdens,  cheerfully.  It  was  a 
hard  thing  for  the  priest  to  see  the  decline  of 
the  Mission  for  which  he  had  sacrificed  so 
much,  and  into  which  he  had  built  the  best 
years  of  his  life.  For  he  knew  now  that  de 
cline  was  sure,  and  no  longer  did  he  struggle 
against  the  inevitable.  He  had  fought  a  good 
fight,  and  he  had  no  regrets.  But,  as  men 
must  always  have  something  to  look  forward 
to,  Padre  Vicente  still  had  his  dreams.  He 
could  not  give  up  all  hope  for  the  final  triumph 
of  the  cause  he  loved  so  well.  If  the  Missions 
were  to  be  transformed  into  parish  churches, 
and  the  Indian  communities  into  pueblos,  then, 
argued  Padre  Vicente,  not  illogically,  a  great 
deal  would  depend  upon  the  parish  priests. 
And  was  not  Miguel,  already  learned  in  much 


80  The  King's  Highway 

of  the  knowledge  of  the  Church,  almost  ready 
to  start  for  the  priests'  college  in  the  City  of 
Mexico?  Blinded  by  his  passion  for  the  work 
of  the  Missions  and  his  love  for  Miguel,  Padre 
Vicente  never  suspected  that  the  boy's  devo 
tion  was  for  him  rather  than  for  the  Church. 
Therefore  he  was  still  very  happy  in  his  dream. 
The  background  of  the  vision  had  shifted  a 
little,  but  it  was  the  same  dream  still. 

*        *        * 

Then,  late  in  April  of  1826,  when  all  the  hills 
were  green,  came  a  body  of  cavalrymen  riding 
from  San  Diego  to  San  Francisco,  and  stopped 
at  San  Juan  Mission.  One  of  their  number, 
an  officer,  was  too  ill  to  go  farther,  they  said — 
he  should  never  have  left  San  Diego.  He 
was  sick  with  a  fever  that  he  had  contracted 
in  the  lowlands  of  Mexico  a  short  time  before, 
and  even  now  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  was 
doing.  Would  the  padres  take  him  in  and  care 
for  him?  The  padres  would.  Tenderly  two 
stalwart  Indians  carried  the  sick  man  into  the 
Mission — a  young  fellow,  apparently  under 
thirty  years  of  age,  with  deep-set  black  eyes 
and  heavy,  dark  hair,  that  curled  around  the 
temples.  They  put  the  young  soldier  down  in 
the  western  corridor ;  and  when  Padre  Vicente 
saw  his  face,  he  knew  that  the  man  was  An 
tonio  Terrazzas.  Miguel  recognized  his  old 


The  King's  Highway  81 

friend,  too,  and  Padre  Luis  and  old  Pablo,  his 
wife  Maria,  and  many  of  the  Indians  remem 
bered  the  man  who  had  taught  Miguel  to  shoot 
eight  years  ago. 

But  Terrazzas  recognized  no  one.  So  sick 
was  he  that  he  could  scarcely  hold  his  head  up. 
Gently  they  put  him  to  bed  in  a  quiet  room  off 
the  courtyard,  and  made  him  as  comfortable  as 
they  could.  But,  though  the  padres  and  the 
wise,  old  Indian  women  exhausted  all  their 
simple  skill  in  his  behalf,  nothing  seemed  of 
any  effect  in  breaking  the  fever  that  was  slowly 
but  surely  sapping  his  strength.  For  days  the 
young  man  would  lie  in  a  stupor ;  hearing  noth 
ing,  seeing  nothing,  knowing  no  one.  Then 
times  of  delirium  would  come  to  him,  when  he 
would  stare  wildly  around  the  room,  his  eyes 
bright  with  fever,  and  talk  rapidly  in  discon 
nected  sentences  that  no  one  could  understand. 
The  padres  and  Candelaria,  the  Indian  woman 
who  nursed  the  man,  said  many  fervent  pray 
ers  in  his  behalf,  and  burned  many  candles ; 
but  it  seemed  that  the  saints  did  not  hear,  for 
Antonio  Terrazzas  did  not  get  better. 

For  three  weeks  he  lay  sick ;  and  during  all 
that  time  he  had  not  one  rational  moment. 
Then,  not  long  after  sunrise  on  a  morning  in 
early  May,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
around  the  room  intelligently  for  the  first  time 


82  The  King's  Highway 

since  he  had  come  there.  Just  to  open  his  eyes 
and  close  them  again — that  was  all.  Then  he 
lay  still  again,  for  he  was  very  weak.  So  weak 
he  was,  in  fact,  that  he  scarcely  realized  that 
he  had  a  body  at  all.  He  could  hardly  lift  his 
his  little  finger,  but  his  brain  was  as  clear  as  it 
had  been  on  that  morning,  years  ago,  when 
he  sat  with  little  Miguel  on  the  long  seat  in 
the  courtyard.  He  knew  that  he  was  in  a  place 
of  rest,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  come  there  to 
die.  With  a  certain  curious  feeling  of  detach 
ment  he  meditated  on  the  latter  fact,  and  won 
dered  that  it  did  not  trouble  him  in  the  least. 

For  some  time  Terrazzas  lay  looking  at  the 
room  with  his  eyes  shut.  He  could  do  this, 
because  that  single  flutter  of  the  eyelids  had 
printed  the  picture  of  it  all  on  his  brain,  much 
as  the  striking  of  a  clock  that  one  hears,  but 
does  not  listen  to,  repeats  itself  in  the  memory 
afterward.  The  room  was  like  others  common 
in  the  Missions  and  ranch  houses  of  Alta  Cali 
fornia.  The  floor  was  paved  with  small,  dia 
mond-shaped  tiles ;  and  the  white-washed 
adobe  walls  were  pierced  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  room  by  recessed  windows  that  faced  each 
other  and  opened  outdoors  in  one  direction 
and  into  a  courtyard  in  the  other.  In  this  case, 
the  east  window  opened  directly  outdoors,  so 
that  the  morning  sun  shone  full  into  the  room. 


The  King's  Highway  83 

Filtering  through  a  vine  loaded  with  Cas- 
tilian  roses,  it  fell  on  the  white  walls  in  round 
pools  of  pink  light  that  quivered  like  the  re 
flection  from  gently  rippling  water. 

The  room  was  scantily  furnished,  but  very 
clean.  Save  for  the  rawhide  bed  on  which  the 
sick  man  lay,  the  only  articles  of  furniture 
were  a  leather-bottomed  chair  by  the  window, 
and  a  little,  square  table  with  some  vials  and 
a  brass  candlestick  on  it.  The  bed  was  in  the 
northwest  corner  of  the  room,  facing  the  east, 
so  that  the  first  thing  Terrazzas  had  seen  when 
he  opened  his  eyes  had  been  a  smoke-black 
ened  niche  in  the  wall  by  the  east  window.  In 
the  niche  stood  a  little  statuette  of  San  Jose, 
a  half-burned  candle  before  it.  Terrazzas 
wondered  idly  how  many  candles  they  had 
burned  for  him.  However,  it  mattered  very 
little  how  many,  he  thought,  for  he  was  going 
to  die  now. 

For  some  minutes  the  sick  man  lay  with 
his  eyes  shut,  acutely  conscious  of  every 
detail  in  the  room.  It  has  been  said  that 
when  the  knowledge  comes  suddenly  to  a  man 
that  he  has  only  a  few  minutes  to  live,  his 
whole  life  passes  in  review  before  him.  Ter 
razzas  had  wakened  suddenly  to  that  realiza 
tion  after  weeks  of  unconsciousness ;  but  noth 
ing  of  the  sort  occurred  with  him.  Instead,  he 


84  The  King's  Highway 

lay  and,  in  his  mind,  examined  minutely  but 
totally  without  interest,  every  detail  in  the 
room  about  him.  He  did  not  know  where 
he  was;  but  though  his  brain  was  perfectly 
clear,  he  did  not  care.  He  was  entirely 
uninterested  in  the  surroundings  he  was  so 
acutely  conscious  of.  If  the  little  statuette 
of  San  Jose  in  the  smoke-blackened  niche 
had  been  standing  on  its  head  instead  of  its 
feet,  Terrazzas  would  not  have  wondered  at 
all. 

Then  he  heard  men's  voices  under  the 
courtyard  windows.  Or  rather,  he  heard  a 
voice;  for  only  to  one  of  them  did  Terrazzas 
pay  any  attention.  It  was  a  very  pleasant 
voice,  strong  and  vibrant,  and  suddenly  he 
knew  that  he  had  heard  it  before.  Full  of  an 
exquisite  quality  of  sympathy,  it  thrilled  the 
very  being  of  the  man  sick  unto  death ;  and 
like  a  flash  the  thought  came  to  him  that  there 
was  something  he  must  tell  to  someone  before 
he  died.  He  wanted  to  tell  it  to  the  man  he 
heard  under  the  window.  Eagerly  he  tried  to 
raise  his  voice  and  call  after  him,  but  he  could 
not  speak  above  a  whisper.  Vaguely  annoyed 
at  that,  he  attempted  to  lift  himself  in  bed ;  but 
sheer  weakness  kept  him  from  moving  so  much 
as  a  hand.  Then  the  voice  died  away  down  the 
long  corridor.  An  acute  distress  of  mind 


The  King's  Highway  85 

replaced  the  former  calm  of  the  sick  man. 
He  could  not  die  until  someone  came !  Some 
one  must  come! 

Then  the  Indian  woman  Candelaria  came 
into  the  room.  Hastening  to  Antonio's  bed 
side,  she  placed  her  hand  upon  his  forehead. 
The  fever  had  left  him,  and  he  looked  at  her 
intelligently.  But  one  glance  at  his  face  told 
Candelaria  that  the  man  was  dying.  Then  she 
saw  that  his  lips  were  moving  in  an  effort  to 
attract  her  attention,  and  she  bent  over  him  to 
listen.  She  could  not  distinguish  the  syllables, 
but  she  thought  she  knew  what  he  wished  to 
say. 

"The  man  is  dying  and  wants  a  priest,"  she 
said  wisely  to  herself.  "I  will  go  and  call 
Padre  Vicente." 

She  left  the  room,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
came  back,  bringing  Padre  Vicente  with  her. 
The  priest  knelt  at  the  bedside  of  Terrazzas, 
but  the  dying  man  did  not  stir.  Padre  Vi 
cente  saw  that  he  was  too  weak  to  receive  the 
Holy  Viaticum ;  and,  holding  the  ivory  cross 
of  his  rosary  before  the  man's  eyes,  he  spoke 
some  words  of  comfort.  But  Antonio  Terraz 
zas  did  not  look  at  the  holy  emblem  before 
him.  Eagerly  he  lifted  his  gaze  to  the  priest's 
magnetic  eyes,  and  made  another  desperate 
effort  to  speak.  Padre  Vicente  saw  that  the 


86  The  King's  Highway 

man  was  trying  to  say  something,  and  he  bent 
lower  to  hear. 

"My  coat — "  whispered  Terrazzas  weakly, 
"the  coat  — I  wore  when  I  came — " 

"You  shall  have  it,  hijo  mio,"  said  the 
priest  with  ready  sympathy.  "Candelaria, 
bring  the  coat  of  the  senor." 

Thus  commanded,  Candelaria  brought  the 
coat  and  laid  it  on  the  bed.  It  was  a  gaudy 
affair  of  green  and  red,  gay  with  the  gold 
trappings  of  an  officer  of  the  Mexican  army ; 
and  it  contrasted  strangely  with  the  somber 
brown  of  Padre  Vicente's  Franciscan  habit. 
The  priest  did  not  look  upon  it  with  scorn 
however.  He  had  been  a  man  of  the  world 
before  he  had  turned  priest ;  and  when  he  bent 
over  Terrazzas  again,  there  was  only  sym 
pathy  in  his  eyes. 

"What  would  you  have  me  do  for  you,  hijo 
mio?"  he  questioned  gently. 

"Take  out — from  the  inside  pocket — what 
you  find  there — "  breathed  the  dying  man 
laboriously. 

Padre  Vicente  thrust  his  hand  into  the  coat, 
and  fumbled  about  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
brought  out  a  small,  oval,  leather  case,  and 
held  it  up,  a  question  on  his  face. 

The  eyes  of  the  dying  man,  which  had  not 
brightened  at  sight  of  the  holy  cross,  kindled 


The  King's  Highway  87 

now.  He  tried  to  speak  again,  but  he  was 
growing  weaker.  Padre  Vicente  bent  over 
him. 

"The  City — of  Mexico — "  murmured  Ter- 
razza  faintly,  "send  to — Rafaela — "  A  strange 
expression  passed  across  the  priest's  face,  and 
he  bent  still  lower  to  catch  the  failing  words. 
"Rafaela — Montijo — my — "  But  the  sentence 
was  never  finished.  The  words  trailed  along 
into  the  eternal  silences;  and  the  priest  knew 
that  Terrazzas  was  dead.  Rising  from  where 
he  knelt  on  the  floor,  he  laid  his  fingers  in 
reverent  blessing  upon  the  thick,  dark  hair 
where  it  curled  about  the  temples.  Lying  as 
if  he  slept  peacefully,  the  hard  lines  of  his 
thin,  dark  face  softened  in  death,  Antonio 
Terrazzas  appeared  little  older  than  when  he 
had  ridden  gaily  off  on  the  King's  Highway 
eight  years  before.  But  the  King's  Highway 
that  he  had  taken  now  was  a  longer  road. 

"He  was  not  more  than  a  boy,"  murmured 
the  priest  compassionately.  "May  God  bless 
his  soul." 

Padre  Vicente  had  seen  fifty-seven  years  pass 
by,  but  he  had  not  forgotten  what  it  was  to 
be  young.  As  he  stood  there  looking  tenderly 
into  the  calm  face  before  him,  something  out 
of  the  past  rose  up  and  clutched  at  his  heart. 
For  a  moment  it  was  not  Antonio  Terrazzas 


88  The  King's  Highivay 

that  he  saw,  but  his  own  dead  youth — himself 
as  he  had  been  thirty  years  ago.  Padre  Vi 
cente  sighed.  Gently  he  picked  up  the  gay 
coat,  sparkling  with  its  gilt  trappings,  and  laid 
it  over  the  still  form  on  the  bed. 

"May    he    rest    in    peace,"    whispered    the 
priest  softly.    Then  he  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
Ashes  of  Roses 

A  Padre  Vicente  walked  quickly  along 
the  corridor,  a  tall,  young  man  step 
ped  suddenly  from  behind  an  arch 
and  barred  his  way.  The  dark,  handsome 
face  under  the  wide  sombrero  was  anxious, 
and  its  owner  spoke  earnestly. 

"What  news,  padre?"  asked  Miguel,  his 
eyes  aflame  with  the  question. 

The  priest  looked  compassionately  into  the 
eager  face. 

"The  young  man  is  asleep,  beloved,"  he  said 
gently.  "The  fever  is  gone — it  will  never 
come  back  any  more,  Miguel." 

The  boy's  face  changed. 

"You  mean  that  he  is  dead!"  he  cried,  all 
the  glow  leaving  his  eyes.  "that  is  what 
you  mean." 

"Yes."  returned  the  priest  almost  absently, 
"that  is  what  I  mean." 

"And  I  did  not  have  a  chance  to  speak  to 
him !"  Miguel's  tone  was  bitter.  "It  is  cruel 
— cruel  that  I  could  not  speak  to  him  even 
once !" 

"Not  cruel,  hijo  mio,"  returned  Padre  Vi- 


90  The  King's  Highway 

cente  soothingly,  "not  cruel.  It  was  the  will 
of  the  good  God." 

"Then  the  will  of  God  is  cruel !"  exclaimed 
Miguel  passionately.  "He  was  the  only  friend 
I  ever  had — except  you,  padre,"  he  added  more 
quietly. 

Padre  Vicente  sighed.  He  could  remember 
the  time  when  he  too  had  thought  the  will  of 
God  was  not  always  kind.  He  knew  better 
now,  but  the  knowledge  did  not  lead  him  to 
forget.  He  laid  his  hand  gently  upon  the 
younger  man's  arm. 

"The  will  of  God  is  never  cruel,  Miguel,"  he 
said  with  that  exquisite  sympathy  that  always 
read  what  one  intended  and  met  it  half  way. 
"He  could  not  be  cruel  for  He  is  Love.  I  have 
lived  a  long  while  and  I  know." 

Miguel  looked  up  quickly.  There  was  a 
suspicion  of  tears  in  his  black-velvet  eyes. 
The  padre  went  on. 

"We  are  not  always  happy,  hijo  mio,"  he 
said  slowly.  Sometimes  our  dearest  hopes — 
things  we  would  give  our  very  life's  blood  for, 
seem  wrecked  before  our  eyes.  That  is  hard 
— very  hard,  and  we  could  not  understand  it 
if  this  life  were  all.  But  this  life  is  not  all. 
I  know." 

Something  in  the  man's  tone  carried  con 
viction  to  Miguel. 


The  King's  Highway  91 

"Forgive  me,  padre,"  he  said  humbly.  "I 
was  wrong."  Then  he  cast  an  adoring  look 
at  the  priest's  face.  "You  are  splendid,"  he 
said  impulsively.  "I  can  never  be  like  you  I 
know!" 

"Choose  a  more  perfect  pattern,  Miguel  of 
my  heart,"  said  Padre  Vicente  soberly,  "and 
you  can  be  a  better  man  than  I.  But  I  do  not 
misunderstand.  I  have  been  young — in  fact, 
I  am  not  old  yet,"  he  added  with  an  odd  smile. 
"I  was  once  like  you,  Miguel." 

Miguel  sighed.  He  was  not  so  hopeful  as 
the  priest  for  his  growth  in  perfection. 

"Did  he  speak  at  all  before  he  died,  padre?" 
he  inquired,  coming  back  to  the  subject  of 
Terrazzas. 

"Scarcely  at  all,"  answered  the  priest.  "He 
was  so  weak  that  he  could  hardly  open  his 
eyes.  He  died  without  pain,  I  think." 

Miguel  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  will  go  and  burn  a  candle  before  San 
Antonio  de  Padua  in  the  south  transept,"  he 
said  at  length,  "that  he  may  pray  for  the  soul 
of  the  other  Antonio." 

"Go,  hijo  mio,  and  may  the  good  God  bless 
you,"  said  Padre  Vicente  tenderly. 

Miguel  hastened  across  the  courtyard  in  the 
direction  of  the  church.  For  a  moment  Padre 
Vicente  stood  looking  after  him;  then  he 


92  The  King's  Highway 

turned  and  walked  rapidly  down  the  corridor. 
When  he  came  to  the  door  of  his  own  room, 
he  went  in  and  shut  it  after  him. 

Padre  Vicente's  room,  or  rather  cell,  was 
a  small,  whitewashed  apartment,  very  much 
like  the  one  he  had  left  a  few  moments  before. 
It  was  furnished  scantily  with  a  rawhide  bed, 
a  rough  chair,  and  a  table  before  the  south 
window.  In  a  niche  by  the  window  stood  a 
figure  of  the  Christ ;  and  below  the  niche  a 
small  cupboard  with  panelled  doors  was  built 
into  the  wall.  Padre  Vicente  crossed  the  room, 
and  sitting  down  in  the  chair,  placed  the  little 
leather  case  on  the  table  before  him.  Probably 
it  contained  a  picture  of  the  betrothed  wife 
of  the  young  man  who  had  just  died.  She 
lived  in  the  City  of  Mexico,  and  Terrazzas 
wished  the  picture  sent  to  her  with  the  news 
of  his  death.  There  was  small  doubt  that 
this  was  the  true  state  of  affairs,  and  a  glance 
inside  the  case  would  make  sure.  Yet  Padre 
Vicente  did  not  open  the  case  at  once.  In  the 
rose  vine  outside  the  window,  a  debonair 
mockingbird  flashed  to  and  fro  among  the 
fragrant  blossoms,  flirting  his  long,  graceful 
tail  easily  from  side  to  side.  The  priest  fol 
lowed  the  bird's  movements  closely,  but  there 
was  an  unseeing  look  in  his  eyes. 

More  than  thirty  years  ago  in  Old  Spain, 


The  King's  Highway  93 

Padre  Vicente  had  loved  a  woman  whose  name 
was  Rafaela — loved  her  with  all  the  pure 
fervor  of  which  his  heart  was  capable.  He  had 
come  away  and  left  her  because  of  the  greater 
passion  that  dominated  his  soul;  but  ever 
after  the  thought  of  her  had  been  to  him  like 
the  sweetness  of  remembered  roses.  In  his 
long  years  of  labor  in  New  Spain,  she  had  been 
with  him  always — not  as  the  memory  of  a 
profane  love,  but  as  the  actual  presence  of  an 
enthroned  purity,  far  above  his  head  like  a 
saint  in  a  niche. 

Other  men  might  put  away  the  memory  of 
love  between  the  withered  petals  of  actual 
roses.  Padre  Vicente's  memory  held  no  such 
material  tokens ;  he  might  not  have  kept  them 
if  it  had.  The  memory  of  love  lives  longer 
than  the  passion  they  say ;  and  so  this  man  was 
fortunate  in  posessing  no  substantial  remem 
brances  of  the  woman  that  he  had  loved.  He 
had  never  touched  the  petals  of  his  roses;  for 
him  there  had  been  only  the  fragrance.  And 
for  a  long  time  the  sweetness  had  been  to  him 
that  of  a  dead  rose — the  memory  of  love  had 
seemed  to  replace  the  love  itself. 

Sitting  before  his  window  that  morning,  the 
priest  stared  into  the  dark-green  foliage  of 
the  rose  vine,  and  left  the  little  leather  case 
untouched  on  the  table  before  him.  He  knew 


94  The  King's  Highway 

that  he  was  afraid  to  open  it.  Not  that  it 
would  seem  a  violation,  for  the  case  had  been 
entrusted  to  him,  and  a  glance  at  the  con 
tents  would  be  necessary  to  the  fulfilment  of 
the  trust.  He  knew  that  Terrazzas  would 
have  wanted  him  to  open  it.  It  was  on  his 
own  account  that  he  hesitated.  That  morning, 
the  name  of  the  woman  he  had  loved  on  the 
lips  of  a  dying  man  had  come  to  him  like  a 
voice  out  of  the  past.  It  was  as  if  the  remem 
bered  sweetness  of  the  dead  rose  had  been  sud 
denly  transmuted  into  the  warm  fragrance  of  a 
living  flower.  More  than  thirty  years  ago  Hvar- 
isto  Artillaga  had  loved  a  Rafaela.  This  morn 
ing  Antonio  Terrazzas  had  died,  the  name  of 
another  Rafaela  his  last  breath.  Her  picture 
lay  on  the  table  before  Padre  Vicente  now ;  but 
the  Rafaela  that  he  had  loved  was  lost  to  him. 
Would  Antonio's  love  be  anything  like  her? 
The  two  might  be  as  totally  unlike  as  night  is 
from  day;  yet  to  open  the  case  would  be  like 
uncovering  a  grave.  It  would  be  even  more 
than  that — it  would  be  lifting  the  saint  down 
from  the  niche ;  taking  away  from  her  the 
incense  of  dead  roses  and  putting  the  odor 
of  fresh  flowers  in  its  place. 

It  would  be  all  of  that,  and  yet  Padre  Vi 
cente  was  not  prepared  for  what  met  his  eyes 
when  he  did  open  the  case.  Slowly  he  undid 


The  King's  Highway  95 

the  fastening  of  the  leather  cover  and  slipped 
it  off.  Inside  lay  a  flat,  oval  locket  of  antique 
gold,  bearing  the  initial  R,  followed,  according 
to  the  Spanish  fashion,  by  an  elaborate  rub- 
rica. 

With  steady  fingers  Padre  Vicente  pressed 
the  spring,  and  the  golden  cover  flew  back. 
And  then  it  was  as  if  the  whole  room  were 
filled  with  the  warm  perfume  of  living  roses. 
Actual  petals  that  have  lain  in  dust  for  thirty 
years  cannot  suddenly  spring  to  a  glorious 
resurrection,  but  remembered  sweetness  can 
rise  again  more  wonderful  than  ever  before. 
Padre  Vicente  shut  his  eyes,  then  the  case. 
Burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  let  memory 
have  its  way. 

"Many  waters  cannot  quench  love, 

Neither  can  the  floods  drown  it." 

For  a  moment,  the  priest  saw  again  Rafaela ; 
not  as  the  enshrined  saint  of  his  thoughts, 
but  the  well  beloved  of  his  soul. 

"Thou  are  all  fair,  my  love;  there  is  no 
spot  in  thee,"  he  murmured  reverently.  Then 
he  lifted  his  head,  and  opening  the  case  again, 
looked  steadily  into  the  face  it  held.  As  well 
as  he  was  aware  of  his  own  presence,  he 
knew  that  the  Rafaela  before  him  was  the 
daughter  of  the  woman  that  he  had  loved. 
The  deep,  tender  eyes  in  the  picture  looked 


96  The  King's  Highway 

into  his  with  the  same  high  look  that  he  had 
known  before.  If  the  painter  had  drawn  the 
likeness  from  the  face  of  the  mother,  he  could 
have  made  no  truer  picture  than  lay  in  the  face 
of  the  daughter.  And  if  he  had  been  seeking 
a  model  for  the  picture  of  a  joyful,  young 
angel,  he  need  have  looked  no  farther.  His 
desires  would  have  been  all  realized  in  that 
face. 

For  several  moments  Padre  Vicente  gazed 
into  the  locket  before  him.  It  had  not  been 
because  he  did  not  love  Rafaela  that  he  had 
left  her.  Nevertheless,  he  had  left  her,  and  he 
had  had  no  word  of  her  since.  She  had  mar 
ried,  and  this  was  her  daughter.  Did  she  love 
the  man  she  had  married?  And  was  she  yet 
alive?  Padre  Vicente  was  fifty-seven  years 
old  now,  and  a  priest;  but  these  questions 
came  back  to  him  as  insistently  as  if  he  were 
young  and  a  man  of  the  world  again.  But 
the  face  before  him  held  no  answer. 

After  a  time  Padre  Vicente  rose  and  knelt 
before  the  Christ  in  the  niche.  He  did  not 
stir  for  many  moments ;  but  when  he  lifted  his 
eyes  again,  peace  shone  in  them.  Gravely 
he  picked  up  the  picture,  and  shut  first  the 
golden  cover,  then  the  leather  one.  Opening 
the  panelled  door  below  the  niche,  he  placed 


The  King's  Highway  97 

the  little  case  carefully  inside  and  shut  the 
door. 

Men  cannot  give  up  their  dreams  once  for 
all.  Sometimes  the  pain  of  old  sorrow  conies 
back  most  insistently  after  years  of  peace. 
But  Padre  Vicente  had  not  sacrificed  his  all 
for  nothing. 

"Thine  eyes  shall  see  the  King  in  His 
beauty :  they  shall  behold  the  land  that  is  very 
far  off." 

Those  words  had  been  his  consolation  once ; 
and  like  a  flash  they  came  back  to  him  now. 

"Father,  I  thank  Thee  that  Thou  hast  heard 
me,"  said  the  priest  simply.  Then  he  went  out 
into  the  corridor.  When  he  closed  the  door 
after  him,  his  hand  was  as  reverent  as  if  the 
room  behind  him  had  been  a  holy  place. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
The  King's  Highway 

SPRING  lingered  late  in  San  Juan  valley 
that  year;  and  the  first  of  May  found 
the  hills  still  green,  still  redolent  with 
the  breath  of  flowers.  Like  the  heavenly 
stream  in  the  Patmos  vision  of  Saint 
John,  the  little  river  sparkled  seaward 
past  trees  bearing  all  manner  of  fruit. 
The  Mission  orchards  promised  rich  har 
vest  of  the  padres'  skill,  and  the  hand  of 
the  spoiler  had  not  touched  them  yet.  Peace 
brooded  over  the  valley — the  peace  of  the 
sky's  cloudless  blue ;  the  peace  of  the  great, 
scarred  sanctuary  that  watched  over  all. 
Peace. 

To  Miguel,  galloping  south  on  the  King's 
Highway,  there  was  no  peace ;  but  a  mad, 
unreasoning  joy  that  filled  his  whole  being 
and  brimmed  over  into  the  atmosphere  about 
him.  The  bubbling  note  of  the  meadowlark  in 
the  wheat  was  not  a  bird's  song  to  him ;  it  was 
merely  part  of  all  the  inexplicable  delight 
about  him.  The  green  of  fields,  the  splendor 
of  flowers,  the  blue  of  heaven  and  the  delicious 
caress  of  the  spring  air  all  said  one  thing  to 


The  King's  Highway  99 

him — be  glad !  The  time,  the  place,  all,  every 
thing  about  him,  went  to  his  head  and  made 
him  drunk  with  the  joy  of  spring  and  youth. 
For  one  wild,  unreasoning  interval,  he  forgot 
that  Terrazzas  lay  asleep  in  the  Mission 
graveyard ;  forgot  that  he  was  on  his  way 
to  Mexico  to  become  a  priest;  remembered 
only  that  the  day  was  fine ;  that  he  was  young 
and  that  he  was  riding  on  the  King's  High 
way. 

Between  smiling  fields  the  road  stretched 
southward  before  him.  His  horse  was  good, 
and  he  was  glad  that  the  way  was  long.  He 
wanted  to  ride  on  and  on  until  he  was  tired. 
Red-gold  poppies  might  burn  on  the  hillsides, 
and  all  the  fields  be  bright  with  the  purple 
of  Spanish  lilies  and  the  pale  gold  of  pansies; 
but  Miguel  saw  them  all  only  as  a  blaze  of 
color,  snuffed  their  glorious  fragrance  only  as 
a  whiff  of  the  delicious  savor  of  living.  If 
only  for  a  moment,  his  dream  had  come  true. 
He  was  mounted  on  a  good,  black  horse ;  the 
jangle  of  harness  and  the  creak  of  saddle 
leather  were  in  his  ears,  and  the  breath  of 
spring  was  in  his  nostrils.  Out  of  the  charmed 
distance,  something  rose  up  and  beckoned  to 
him.  He  saw  it,  and  everything  that  was 
within  him  stood  up  to  answer  the  call.  He 
did  not  stop  to  think  that  he  might  never 


100  The  King's  Highway 

reach  what  beckoned  to  him ;  in  his  present 
mood  it  was  enough  that  his  blood  should 
tingle  madly  as  he  rode  to  meet  what  had 
called  him  since  his  childhood.  And  as  he 
rode,  the  picture  of  Rafaela  Montijo  lay  warm 
over  his  heart. 

That  morning  Padre  Vicente  had  showed 
Miguel  the  picture,  and  told  him  of  the  dying 
request  of  Terrazzas.  He  was  to  carry  the 
little  case  with  a  letter  of  explanation  from  the 
padre,  to  a  certain  Rafaela  Montijo  in  the  City 
of  Mexico.  With  reverent  eyes,  Miguel  had 
gazed  upon  the  beautiful  face  in  the  golden 
frame.  The  story  of  it  was  simple ;  for  Padre 
Vicente  did  not  tell  him  of  the  other  Rafaela. 
Gently  the  priest  had  put  the  case  in  the  young 
man's  eager  hand. 

"Guard  it  well,  hijo  mio,"  he  had  said,  "that 
the  owner  may  surely  receive  it.  You  could 
not  go  on  a  more  sacred  mission  if  you  carried 
a  message  from  the  padre  presidente  him 
self." 

His  eyes  had  spoken  more  eloquently  than 
his  lips;  but  Miguel  had  laid  that  to  the  zeal 
of  the  Franciscan  for  loving  his  fellow  man. 
He  had  accepted  the  trust  loyally,  but,  as  he 
rode  south  that  morning,  the  picture  meant 
no  more  to  him  personally  than  the  caress 
of  the  breeze,  or  the  sparkle  of  the  little,  blue 


The  King's  Highivay  101 

marianas  by  the   wayside.     For   Miguel   had 
never  snuffed  the  incense  of  dead  roses. 

As  for  Padre  Vicente,  he  had  felt  no  mis 
giving  in  entrusting  the  picture  of  a  beautiful 
woman  to  the  young  man  who  was  about  to 
enter  the  priesthood.  God  would  take  care  of 
that  matter.  He  had  made  the  dream  come 
true  so  far;  and  Padre  Vicente  was  ready  to 
trust  Him  the  rest  of  the  way. 

Miguel  rode  a  long  distance  southward 
before  his  first  fine  exhiliration  left  him.  And 
when  at  length  he  did  check  the  mad  gait  of 
his  horse  and  settle  down  to  an  easier  pace, 
his  mood  was  not  less  high,  but  more  thought 
ful.  He  looked  every  inch  a  man  as  he  sat 
his  horse  that  morning.  One  would  have  said 
that  he  was  a  soldier,  a  gay  caballero,  a  young 
nobleman,  anything  but  a  prospective  priest. 
There  was  about  him  the  same  careless  grace, 
the  same  unconscious  fire  that  Terrazzas  had 
noted  years  ago  when  he  had  said :  "you  look 
as  if  you  had  fighting  blood  in  your  veins." 
The  look  had  always  been  there ;  but  it  was 
more  pronounced  about  the  man  of  twenty-one 
than  it  had  been  about  the  boy  of  thirteen. 
And  yet  the  young  man  was  almost  totally 
unconscious  of  its  presence. 

The  truth  was  that  Miguel  was  a  most 
extraordinary  mixture  of  warring  qualities. 


102  The  King's  Highway 

His  life  so  far  had  been  passed  within  the  pale 
of  the  Church.  A  strange  babyhood  was  that 
within  the  walls  of  a  Franciscan  monastery ; 
and  it  was  little  wonder  that  at  twenty-one 
Miguel  was  at  once  old  and  young  for  his 
years.  No  mother  had  sung  the  little  boy  to 
sleep  with  tender  lullabies,  or  begiled  his  wak 
ing  hours  with  strangely  woven  tales  of  fairies 
and  giants.  His  earliest  companions  had  been 
the  priests  and  the  Indians;  his  earliest  recol 
lections  solemn  chants  and  pious  stories  of  the 
saints.  His  playground  had  been  the  Mission 
corridors  and  God's  great  out-of-doors;  and 
little  did  he  know  of  the  world  and  its  ways. 
All  these  things  had  had  their  effect;  and  at 
twenty-one,  in  his  habits  of  thought  and 
manner  of  life,  Miguel  was  a  Franciscan. 
But,  almost  unconfessed  even  in  his  heart  of 
hearts,  the  unknown  heritage  that  he  had 
brought  with  him  cried  out  for  something 
different.  In  the  days  of  his  childhood  it  had 
stood  up  within  him  and  reached  out  at  sight 
of  the  broad  trail  of  the  King's  Highway  that 
led  on  and  on,  away  into  the  great  world.  It 
had  wakened  into  quicker  life  at  the  coming 
of  Antonio  Terrazzas.  And,  in  the  heart  of 
the  man,  a  vague,  unsatisfied  desire  still 
smouldered  ready  to  burst  into  flame  at  the 
slightest  touch.  But  Miguel  did  not  realize 


The  King's  Highway  103 

this.  The  vague  unrest  had  been  a  part  of  him 
so  long  that  he  did  not  regard  it  as  anything 
strange.  He  accepted  it  as  he  accepted  every 
thing  else,  as  the  will  of  the  good  God;  and 
today,  as  he  rode  through  blossoming  fields 
on  his  way  to  Mexico,  he  was  honestly  sure 
of  his  vocation. 

It  is  seldom  that  people,  especially  young 
people,  analyze  their  own  motives.  From 
childhood  Miguel  had  known  that  he  was  des 
tined  for  the  priesthood.  Everyone  that  had 
spoken  to  him  on  the  subject  had  assured  him 
of  that  fact.  Only  once  had  he  wavered ;  and 
of  that  brief  apostacy  Terrazzas  had  been  the 
unconscious  cause.  True,  the  beacon  that  had 
lighted  his  footsteps  back  to  the  fold  on  that 
occasion  had  been  love  of  Padre  Vicente.  But 
it  is  easy  sometimes  to  mistake  the  sign  for 
the  thing  signified ;  and,  if  a  short  time  after 
his  struggle,  it  had  been  suggested  to  the  boy 
that  his  vocation  was  a  matter  of  loyalty  to  a 
man  and  not  to  the  Church,  Miguel  would 
have  repudiated  the  idea  indignantly.  For  to 
him,  Padre  Vicente  was  the  Church,  and  the 
Church  was  Padre  Vicente.  It  has  not  always 
been  easy  for  great  minds  to  separate  prin 
ciple  and  personality;  and  Miguel  was  only 
a  boy.  Moreover,  he  was  under  the  daily 
influence  of  a  great  personality.  From  baby- 


104  The  King's  Highway 

hood,  he  had  looked  to  the  padre  in  every 
thing;  had  poured  out  upon  him  all  the  love 
of  which  he  was  capable.  And  with  his  love 
was  mingled  reverence,  adoration  that  amount 
ed  almost  to  worship.  The  man  was  his  hero 
— yes,  more,  his  saint.  If  Padre  Vicente  had 
stepped  into  a  burning,  fiery  furnace,  and 
holding  out  his  hand  had  said:  "Come," 
Miguel  would  have  followed  him  cheerfully. 
And  so  it  was  not  strange  that  when  Padre 
Vicente  opened  the  door  of  the  Church,  and 
said:  "Come,"  Miguel  obeyed  without  a 
question.  Something  of  the  heroic  splendor  of 
the  priest's  own  personality  seemed  to  invest 
his  holy  office  because  it  was  his;  and  the 
boy  could  not  distinguish.  In  this,  however, 
he  was  only  like  others,  whose  name  has 
always  been  legion — hero  worshipers  who 
persuade  themselves  into  the  belief  that  they 
are  devotees  of  a  cause. 

All  these  things  had  done  much  to  choke  out 
Old  Desire ;  but  Old  Desire  was  not  dead.  Like 
a  smouldering  ember  ready  to  spring  into 
flame  at  an  instant's  touch,  it  waited  in  his 
heart.  Miguel  was  among  those  who  bore 
the  cross ;  but  he  was  not  of  them.  He  was  of 
those  who  carried  the  banners ;  but,  blinded  by 
love  of  one  who  followed  the  cross,  he  did 
not  know  it.  Today,  as  he  journeyed  south- 


The  King's  Highway  105 

ward,  he  was  unconscious  of  all  these  things; 
and  knew  only  that  he  was  riding  on  the 
King's  Highway,  and  that  something  out  of 
the  distance  called  to  him.  He  did  not  know 
what  it  was  that  beckoned  to  him — perhaps 
even  now,  Old  Desire  and  the  padre's  calling 
\vere  not  entirely  distinct  in  his  mind.  If  he 
had  known  that  what  he  rode  to  meet  would 
soon  fan  the  embers  of  Old  Desire  into  glow 
ing  flame,  would  he  have  turned  back?  Who 
knows?  At  all  events,  he  did  not  know;  and 
so  he  rode  ever  southward  on  the  King's 
Highway.  Somewhere  ahead  that  which  he 
knew  not,  but  that  for  which  his  soul  cried  out, 
waited  for  his  coming.  And  as  he  rode,  the 
picture  of  Rafaela  Montijo  lay  warm  over 
his  heart. 


CHAPTER   X. 
Rafaela  Montijo 

PADRE  Vicente  had  chosen  one  of  the 
finest  horses  from  the  Mission  herd  for 
Miguel's  journey;  and  when  the  young 
man  rode  down  San  Diego  valley  that  evening, 
the  sun  was  still  a  half  hour  high.  Within  a 
mile  of  the  Mission,  Miguel  passed  a  typical 
California  ranch  home — a  long,  whitewashed 
adobe  with  wide  veranda  and  tiled  roof.  One 
lone  poplar  mounted  guard  over  the  entrance 
at  the  road,  and  a  thick  hedge  of  tall  orange 
trees  bordered  one  side  of  the  house.  Smoke 
was  rising  from  the  kitchen  chimney  as  Miguel 
rode  by ;  and  he  looked  at  it  curiously,  as 
part  of  a  life  that  he  knew  little  of.  For 
what  should  a  man  brought  up  in  a  monas 
tery  know  of  a  home?  Nothing  from  his  own 
experience ;  but  there  is  always  the  imagina 
tion.  In  his  childhood  Miguel  had  envied  his 
little  Indian  playfellows  their  simple  joys — 
father  and  mother  and  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  a  home  within  the  four  walls  of  an  adobe 
hut.  Now  that  he  was  a  man,  he  no  longer 
envied  the  Indians.  But  the  blue  smoke 
curling  upward  from  the  wide  kitchen  chimney 


The  King's  Highway  107 

that  spring  evening  aroused  an  old  longing; 
and  impatiently  he  spurred  his  horse  onward. 
He  would  stay  that  night  at  San  Diego 
Mission. 

A  few  moments  later,  Miguel  came  in  sight 
of  the  tall  fachada  of  the  Mission,  and  the 
green  palm  trees  for  which  San  Diego  was 
famous.  The  white  walls  and  red-tiled  roofs 
gleamed  splendid  in  the  light  of  the  declining 
sun;  and,  according  to  tradition,  the  young 
man  should  have  uttered  a  pious  ejaculation 
at  sight  of  this  first  citadel  of  the  faith  in 
Alta  California.  But  Miguel  did  no  such 
thing.  Instead,  he  caught  his  breath  and 
almost  lost  hold  of  his  bridle  rein ;  for  there  on 
a  big,  white  horse  under  the  palm  trees  he  saw 
her — Rafaela  Montijo — deep  in  conversation 
with  a  Franciscan  priest.  The  young  man 
could  scarcely  believe  the  evidence  of  his  own 
eyes,  for  that  very  morning  Padre  Vicente 
had  told  him  that  the  girl  whose  picture  he 
carried  was  in  Mexico.  But  there  she  was 
under  the  palm  trees.  Miguel  was  as  sure  of 
that  as  he  was  that  he  was  alive;  there  could 
be  no  mistake  about  it.  There  by  the  gate 
in  the  Mission  wall  she  sat  her  horse ;  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun  across  her  head  like 
the  aureole  of  a  saint.  Miguel  thought  her  the 
most  beautiful  thing  he  had  ever  seen ;  and 


108  The  King's  Highway 

there  came  to  his  mind  the  picture  of  a  young 
angel  by  Murillo  that  hung  in  the  sacristy  at 
San  Juan.  Instinctively  he  took  off  his  som 
brero. 

The  girl  on  the  horse  turned.  Miguel  saw 
that  she  was  taking  leave  of  the  priest;  and 
as  he  rode  nearer,  she  wheeled  her  mount  and 
came  directly  toward  him.  She  gave  him  one 
look  in  passing — such  an  impersonal  glance 
as  any  noble  lady  might  give  a  strange  cabal- 
lero  on  the  King's  Highway.  But  it  was 
enough  for  Miguel  to  be  sure  that  her's  was 
the  likeness  he  carried.  Her  face  wore  the 
same  high  look — there  could  not  be  another 
like  her. 

On  she  went  in  the  direction  that  he  had 
come;  and  she  did  not  look  back.  All  uncon 
scious  of  the  fact  that  his  horse  had  stopped 
to  nibble  the  grass  by  the  way,  Miguel  turned 
in  his  saddle  to  follow  her  with  his  eyes. 
What  should  he  do?  Yonder,  disappearing  in 
that  cloud  of  yellow  dust,  rode  Rafaela  Mon- 
tijo,  the  woman  whose  picture  he  carried — the 
betrothed  wife  of  Antonio  Terrazzas.  Ter- 
razzas  slept  under  the  spring  grasses  at  San 
Juan;  and  he,  Miguel  de  Dios  Artillaga  who 
carried  her  picture  over  his  heart,  sat  here 
without  a  word,  watching  her  ride  away  into 
the  distance.  What  should  he  do?  Terrazzas 


The  King's  Highway  109 

was  dead  and  the  girl,  did  not  know  it. 
Decidedly  it  was  the  duty  of  Miguel  to  ride 
after  her — to  deliver  the  picture  and  the 
message.  Yet  he  did  not  stir.  Wide-eyed 
and  breathless,  as  if  he  had  seen  an  angel 
pass  by,  he  sat  in  his  saddle  and  watched  the 
girl  fast  disappearing  up  the  road.  What 
should  he  do? 

Suddenly  a  snatch  of  ribald  song  fell  upon 
his  ears.  A  Mexican  soldier  from  the  presidio, 
somewhat  the  worse  for  liquor,  rode  slowly 
past  where  Miguel  sat.  Looking  from  the 
young  man's  face  to  the  woman  now  almost 
out  of  sight  up  the  road,  he  drew  rein. 

"Console  yourself,  amigo  mio,"  he  said  with 
a  leer.  "She's  pretty,  but  you  can't  have  her. 
She's  mine  already.  I  tell  you — " 

Startled  from  his  reverie.  Miguel  turned 
upon  the  man  in  sudden  rage,  and  laid  his 
riding  whip  full  across  the  drunken  face. 

"Shut  your  lying  mouth — animal — !"  he 
cried  furiously,  and  instinctively  drew  back 
to  defend  himself.  Strange  to  say,  however, 
the  man  did  not  show  fight.  With  a  mut 
tered  curse,  he  wheeled  his  horse  and  galloped 
back  toward  the  Mission. 

For  a  moment  Miguel  sat  in  a  daze,  staring 
at  the  whip  in  his  hand.  He  had  struck  a 
man  across  the  face — he,  Miguel  de  Dios 


110  The  King's  Highway 

Artillaga  who  was  on  his  way  to  Mexico  to 
become  a  priest.  He  had  not  meant  to  do  it — 
something  had  lifted  his  hand  and  bade  him 
strike;  he  did  not  know  what  urged  him. 
Mingled  feelings  surged  in  his  heart — anger, 
triumph,  astonishment  at  himself.  What 
should  he  do?  Suddenly  his  brain  cleared. 
Gathering  up  his  reins,  he  wheeled  quickly 
and  dug  the  spurs  into  the  sides  of  his  horse. 
He  would  follow  her — Rafaela  Montijo — over 
take  her,  and  deliver  the  message.  Deep  in 
the  uttermost  parts  of  his  soul,  smouldering 
embers  glowed  fiercely  as  if  about  to  burst 
into  flame.  But  Miguel  did  not  heed  them. 
With  wildly  beating  heart,  he  galloped  madly 
back  in  the  way  he  had  come.  Somewhere 
ahead  of  him  on  the  King's  Highway,  all 
unconscious  of  the  sudden  tumult  that  she 
had  caused,  rode  Rafaela  Montijo,  and  did 
not  look  back. 

The  sun  hung  low  in  the  west  now,  but 
Miguel  did  not  see  it.  Eagerly  he  pushed  his 
mount  onward,  till  at  a  bend  in  the  road  he 
came  in  sight  of  Rafaela.  She  had  slackened 
her  horse's  pace ;  and  instinctively  Miguel 
checked  his  own  speed.  Why,  he  could  not 
have  told.  They  covered  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
thus ;  she  looking  straight  ahead,  he  following. 
Then  the  house  of  the  lone  poplar  came  into 


The  King's  Highway  111 

view.  With  the  manner  of  one  on  familiar 
ground,  the  girl  turned  into  the  entrance,  and 
dismounting,  gave  her  horse  to  a  little  Mex 
ican  boy  who  led  it  away.  Then  she  went  into 
the  house. 

From  the  roadway,  Miguel  watched  her 
disappear.  Then  he  dismounted  and  tied  his 
horse  to  an  iron  ring  in  the  trunk  of  the  lone 
poplar.  He  would  follow  her  into  the  house. 

An  old  Mexican  woman  was  feeding  ca 
naries  on  the  veranda  as  Miguel  came  in.  She 
stepped  forward  to  meet  him ;  and  he  pulled 
off  his  sombrero  with  the  easy  grace  that  was 
his  birthright. 

"Is  the  Sefiorita  Montijo  at  home?"  he  asked 
respectfully.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  ask  if 
such  a  person  as  the  Senorita  Montijo  lived 
there. 

Impressed  by  the  noble  bearing  of  the  young 
man,  the  old  woman  bowed  elaborately. 

"The  senorita  is  at  home,"  she  said  with 
deference.  "If  the  senor  will  do  us  the  honor 
to  enter  the  house,  I  will  call  her." 

The  senor  would  do  them  that  honor,  who 
ever  "they"  might  be ;  and  the  old  woman 
went  in  search  of  the  senorita. 

The  room  which  Miguel  entered  was  long 
and  low,  with  a  tiled  floor  and  whitewashed 
walls.  Several  carved  chairs  and  a  table  were 


112  The  King's  Highway 

the  only  furniture ;  but  Miguel  felt  at  home 
because  San  Antonio  de  Padua  and  San  Jose 
looked  down  at  him  from  little  niches  on 
either  side  of  the  big  fireplace.  The  young 
man  did  not  sit  down,  but  crossed  over  to  the 
window  and  stood  looking  out.  In  the  orange 
hedge  that  bordered  the  side  of  the  house, 
numberless  linnets  were  celebrating  a  sort  of 
choral  evensong.  Many  times  Miguel  had 
heard  their  soft  twitter  at  evening  in  the 
padres'  garden  at  San  Juan ;  but  the  sound 
came  to  him  now  as  from  a  great  way  off. 
His  brain  was  awhirl  with  vague  questions 
and  strange  wonderings.  Rafaela  Montijo, 
that  morning  unknown,  far  off,  the  creature 
of  a  dream,  was  under  the  same  roof  with 
him  now,  living  breathing  presence.  What 
would  she  say  when  he  gave  her  the 
picture?  Miguel  was  full  of  a  dread  that  she 
would  burst  into  tears;  yet  for  worlds  he 
would  not  have  surrendered  the  privilege  of 
giving  it  to  her.  With  abstracted  gaze  he 
watched  the  yellow  light  of  the  setting  sun 
filter  lingeringly  through  the  green  orange 
leaves.  He  took  the  letter  and  picture  from 
under  his  coat  and  waited. 

Suddenly  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  room 
opened,  and  Rafaela  Montijo  came  in.  Miguel 
turned  and  saw  her,  and  for  an  instant  neither 


The  King's  Highway  113 

spoke.  To  Miguel  it  was  if  the  angel  in  the 
sacristy  at  San  Juan  had  stepped  down  out  of 
the  frame  and  stood  before  him  in  flesh  and 
blood.  Outlined  against  the  glow  of  the 
western  window,  she  wore  again  the  aureole 
that  had  lighted  her  head  when  he  had  first 
seen  her  under  the  palm  trees  at  San  Diego 
Mission ;  and  Miguel  felt  once  more  the 
reverence  that  had  possessed  him  then.  He 
stepped  forward. 

"Senorita  Rafaela  Montijo?"  he  questioned 
steadily. 

"Si,  senor,"  answered  the  girl  slowly,  and 
waited  for  him  to  speak  again.  With  a  sudden 
rush  of  feeling,  Miguel  noted  that  she  was 
very  young,  not  more  than  nineteen  or  twenty. 
There  was  something  intensely  appealing 
about  the  clear,  direct  gaze  of  the  dark  eyes 
she  lifted  to  his ;  and  suddenly  Miguel  thought 
of  Terrazzas  asleep  in  the  padres'  graveyard. 
How  he  must  have  loved  her ! 

"I  am  Miguel  de  Dios  Artillaga,  and  I 
bring  you  a  message  from  Padre  Vicente 
Artillaga  at  San  Juan  Capistrano,"  said  the 
young  man  simply.  "He  thought  that  you 
were  in  the  City  of  Mexico." 

"And  you  found  me  here."  Her  gaze  was 
puzzled.  "I  do  not  know  Padre  Vicente. 
What  message  has  he  for  me?" 


114  The  King's  Highway 

"This,  senorita."  Miguel  placed  the  little 
package  and  the  letter  in  the  girl's  hands. 
His  heart  beat  fast,  but  his  voice  was  steady. 

The  look  of  wonder  did  not  leave  her  eyes. 

"Muchas  gracias,  sefior,"  said  the  girl. 
"May  I  ask  you  to  wait  one  moment  while  I 
read  the  letter?  There  may  be  an  answer." 

Miguel  knew  in  his  soul  that  there  was  no 
answer,  but  he  said  nothing.  The  girl  turned 
to  the  window  to  read  the  letter  and  Miguel 
walked  over  to  the  fireplace  where  he  stood 
before  the  little  figure  of  San  Antonio  de 
Padua.  Would  that  the  good  saint  of  Padua 
might  watch  over  the  loved  one  of  his  name 
sake  now! 

For  several  moments  the  girl  at  the  window 
gave  no  sign.  The  daylight  was  failing,  and 
the  twitter  of  the  linnets  in  the  oranges  grew 
gradually  fainter.  To  Miguel  it  seemed  as  if 
hours  had  passed  since  he  had  taken  his  stand 
before  the  niche  of  San  Antonio.  Then 
Rafaela  Montijo  turned  and  laid  the  letter  and 
the  picture  on  the  table  by  the  fireplace. 

"So  Antonio  is  dead,"  she  said  in  a  strange 
voice.  Then  she  added  without  a  tremor  in 
her  tone,  "I  know  that  he  was  dead.  If  he 
had  not  died,  I  should  have  had  news  of  him 
before  this." 

The    marked    calm    of    the    girl's    manner 


The  King's  Highway  115 

nonplussed  Miguel.  He  would  not  have  been 
surprised  had  she  broken  into  a  passion  of 
tears ;  but  this — was  this  the  way  a  woman 
met  the  news  of  her  lover's  death?  He  forgot 
that  he  was  only  the  bearer  of  the  message, 
and  he  spoke  the  question  that  trembled  on  his 
lips. 

"And  you — you  loved  him?" 

Her  deep  eyes  opened  wide,  and  a  hurt  look 
crept  into  them. 

"I  loved  him?"  she  echoed  slowly.  "No,  I 
never  loved  him." 

Her  manner  was  as  innocent  as  that  of  a 
child,  and  it  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world  to  speak  thus  with  her. 

"But  he  carried  your  picture,"  protested 
Miguel  in  honest  bewilderment. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "he  carried  my  picture. 
He  loved  me."  Then  after  a  moment  she 
added  as  if  to  herself,  "I  did  not  love  him, 
but  he  was  the  only  friend  I  had." 

"He  was  my  friend  too,"  said  Miguel. 

"Your  friend?  Where  did  you  know  him?" 
asked  Rafaela  Montijo. 

"At  San  Juan  Capistrano,  eight  years  ago," 
returned  Miguel.  "When  I  was  a  child,  he 
was  my  friend.  He  was  very  dear  to  me,"  he 
added  loyally. 

Suddenly   the   girl's   manner   lost   its   calm. 


116  The  King's  Highway 

Her  deep  eyes  filled ;  and  throwing  herself  into 
a  chair  by  the  table,  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands.  For  a  moment  she  sat  thus;  then  she 
lifted  her  face,  and  the  man  across  the  table 
saw  that  it  was  wet  with  tears.  When  she 
spoke,  her  voice  was  not  the  same  as  it  had 
been.  It  was  very  tender. 

"Antonio  was  my  good  friend,"  she  said. 
"Sit  down  and  tell  me  what  you  know  about 
him." 

Obediently  Miguel  took  a  seat  opposite  the 
girl  and  told  all  that  he  knew  of  Antonio  Ter- 
razzas.  While  he  spoke,  Rafaela  kept  her  clear, 
appealing  gaze  on  his  face,  and  when  he 
finished,  she  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Poor  Antonio,"  she  said  softly.  "He  loved 
me — he  was  very  good  to  me."  She  paused  a 
moment,  then  went  on.  "I  think  you  do  not 
understand.  If  he  had  lived,  I  should  have 
married  him.  But  I  did  not  love  him  as 
a  woman  wants  to  love  the  man  she  marries." 

Miguel  nodded  silently.  It  did  not  seem  at 
all  strange  that  they  two  should  speak  thus 
intimately  when  they  had  met  only  a  few 
moments  before.  The  girl  went  on. 

"I  promised  to  marry  him — because — "  she 
hesitated — "because  it  seemed  best.  He  knew 
that  I  did  not  love  him.  Last  winter  he  left 
the  City  of  Mexico.  He  told  me  that  he  was 


The  King's  Highway  117 

going  on  a  dangerous  mission,  that  perhaps 
he  would  not  see  me  again.  He  would  be 
happier  if  he  carried  my  picture  with  him." 
There  was  a  little  quiver  in  her  voice,  and  she 
hurried  on.  "I  gave  him  my  picture  and  he 
took  it  away  with  him.  He  is  dead,  and  you 
have  brought  it  to  me  again.  He  was  very 
good  to  me — poor  Antonio,"  she  finished 
pathetically. 

It  was  almost  dark  now,  and  the  voices  of 
the  linnets  had  ceased.  Silence  reigned  for  a 
moment,  then  Miguel  rose  in  his  place. 

"May  the  good  God  keep  his  soul  and  you, 
senorita,"  he  said  reverently. 

"I  pray  that  He  will,"  answered  Rafaela. 
Then  she  rose  too.  The  old  Mexican  woman 
came  in,  and  placing  two  lighted  candles  in 
brass  holders  on  the  table,  went  out  again 
silently.  Across  the  soft  flame  of  the  candles 
the  girl  looked  at  Miguel ;  and  again  he 
thought  of  the  angel  at  San  Juan. 

"You  were  his  friend,"  she  said  gently. 
"You  loved  him.  I  thank  you  for  bringing 
me  the  message." 

"Do  not  speak  of  it,  senorita,"  replied 
Miguel.  "It  was  nothing." 

"Yes,  it  was  a  great  deal,"  insisted  Rafaela. 
"He  was  my  good  friend  and  I  wish  that  I 
could  have  loved  him.  You  brought  him  to 


118  The  King's  Highway 

my  remembrance,  and  for  that  I  thank  you." 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  an  exquisite  tenderness, 
and  Miguel,  looking  into  them,  no  longer 
pitied  Terrazzas  asleep  in  the  padres'  grave 
yard  at  San  Juan.  Wonderful  indeed  it  must 
have  been  to  love  her ;  but  to  know  that  she 
did  not  love  him — it  were  better  to  go  down 
into  silence. 

"Good  night,  senorita,"  he  said.  "May  the 
peace  of  God  be  with  you." 

"And  with  you  also,"  answered  Rafaela.  He 
had  said  that  he  was  going  to  be  a  priest. 
How  gentle  he  was,  she  thought,  and  yet  how 
strong!  There  was  an  air  of  a  man  of  the 
world  about  him  though — she  had  never  seen 
a  priest  like  him.  Perhaps  if  Antonio  had 
been  more  like  this  man — but  Antonio  was 
dead.  She  looked  at  Miguel  once  more  across 
the  candles. 

"Good  night,"  she  said.  Then  he  was  gone, 
and  she  was  alone  in  the  room.  Taking  one 
of  the  lighted  candles,  she  placed  it  before 
the  figure  of  San  Antonio. 

"Peace,"  she  whispered  softly,  and  fell  on 
her  knees. 

Outside,  Miguel  looking  up  at  the  starry 
heavens,  walked  rapidly  toward  the  gate. 
Darkness  and  silence  had  come  over  the  place. 

Before  him   the  lone  poplar  loomed   black, 


The  King's  Highway  119 

like  one  giant  monk  in  somber  gown.  The 
young  man  sighed.  The  mission  entrusted  to 
him  by  Padre  Vicente  fulfilled,  he  was  years 
older  than  when  he  had  entered  that  gate  an 
hour  before.  A  gay,  young  caballero  would 
have  said  that  this  was  the  beginning  of  a 
romantic  attachment ;  but  Miguel  knew  noth 
ing  of  romantic  attachments.  He  did  not  try 
to  classify  the  strange  feelings  that  surged  over 
him ;  he  could  not  have  done  so  had  he  tried. 

At  the  gate  he  stopped  and  fumbled  at  the 
iron  ring  in  the  trunk  of  the  poplar  where  he 
had  tied  his  horse.  The  horse  was  not  there. 
How  could  he  have  gotten  away?  He  had 
been  tied  securely.  It  was  growing  darker 
now,  and  strain  his  eyes  as  he  could,  Miguel 
did  not  see  the  horse  anywhere.  He  was  not 
greatly  disturbed  however.  It  was  not  likely 
that  anyone  had  stolen  his  mount — horses 
were  too  plentiful  for  that.  Perhaps  the  little 
Mexican  boy  who  had  taken  Rafaela's  horse 
had  taken  his  too,  to  keep  it  for  him.  He 
would  not  bother  to  look  for  it  now,  in  the 
dark.  The  Mission  was  not  more  than  a  mile 
distant,  and  he  could  easily  walk.  Accordingly 
he  set  out  at  a  good,  round  pace  down  the 
road. 

Miguel  had  not  gone  far,  when,  under  a 
liveoak  that  overhung  the  road,  he  stumbled 


120  The  King's  Highway 

and  fell.  Somewhat  annoyed,  he  tried  to  get 
up.  But  he  could  not.  His  legs  were  tangled 
in  a  twisted  rope  that  pulled  tightly  toward 
the  side  of  the  road.  Then  he  heard  the  sound 
of  someone  crawling  heavily  toward  him 
through  the  grass  and  dead  leaves.  The  light 
of  a  lantern  flashed  in  his  eyes;  and  in  that 
instant  he  saw  before  him  the  face  of  the  man 
he  had  struck  that  afternoon,  a  long  red  line 
across  it  where  his  whip  had  cut.  The  man 
leered  evilly  at  him,  and  Miguel  struggled 
vainly  for  a  second.  Then  something  hard 
struck  the  left  side  of  his  head,  and  he  knew 
no  more  for  a  while. 


CHAPTER  XL 
La  Encifia 

WHEN  Miguel  came  to  his  senses,  he 
was  lying  under  a  spreading  live- 
oak  in  an  open  field.  The  moon  was 
shining  brightly,  and  its  white  light  gleamed 
fitfully  through  the  thick  foliage  of  the  tree. 
Across  the  faintly  glowing  embers  of  a  dying 
fire  Miguel  saw  the  form  of  a  sleeping  man. 
Who  was  he,  and  how  had  he  come  there? 
Miguel  did  not  know.  He  did  not  know  either 
how  he  himself  had  come  there.  He  tried  to 
sit  up,  but  he  was  tangled  clumsily  in  twists 
of  knotted  rope.  There  was  a  strange  numb 
ness  in  his  head ;  and  when  he  tried  to  move,  a 
sharp  pain  ran  violently  through  his  left  leg. 
What  could  be  the  matter?  He  had  been  hurt, 
and  he  was  tied.  Who  had  done  it?  Was  it 
the  man  who  slept  there?  A  sudden  gust  of 
wind  swept  under  the  tree,  fanning  the  dying 
embers  into  brief  flame.  The  fire  flared  up, 
casting  a  weird  light  over  the  face  of  the  man 
who  slept  beside  it;  and  Miguel  saw  that  a 
long,  red  line  lay  across  his  forehead  and 
right  cheek.  He  wondered  how  the  mark 


122  The  King's  Highway 

had  come  there.  At  any  rate  the  thing  to  do 
was  to  get  away  from  this  place  as  fast  as 
possible. 

With  a  sudden  effort  that  racked  every 
nerve  in  his  bruised  body,  Miguel  sat  up.  The 
man  by  the  fire  did  not  wake.  Apparently 
he  must  sleep  very  deeply.  Cautiously  Miguel 
tried  to  free  his  right  arm  and  after  a  moment 
he  succeeded.  Knots  tied  by  a  drunken  man 
do  not  always  hold  very  well ;  and  after  a 
time  he  was  free.  Eagerly  he  tried  to  rise  to 
his  feet,  but  he  fell  back  with  a  stifled  groan. 
His  left  leg  would  not  move ;  and  when  he 
tried  to  stand,  a  flash  of  exquisite  pain  shot 
through  his  whole  body.  He  lay  back  and 
thought  for  a  moment.  Very  well  then,  if  he 
could  not  walk,  he  could  crawl.  He  must 
get  away  from  here  at  any  cost.  Just  why,  he 
did  not  know,  but  he  entertained  vague  sus 
picions  of  the  man  by  the  fire. 

After  a  moment,  Miguel  turned  over  and 
started  to  crawl  away,  dragging  his  hurt  leg 
after  him.  That  every  movement  caused  him 
racking  pain  did  not  matter.  He  was  pos 
sessed  of  only  one  idea — to  get  away  from  the 
man  under  the  tree.  As  he  moved,  the  dry 
leaves  on  the  ground  under  him  crackled 
sharply;  and  the  man  by  the  fire  rolled  over, 
cursing  drunkenly  in  his  sleep.  Instinct  with 


The  King's  Highway  123 

fear,  Miguel  paused,  but  the  man  gave  no 
further  sign.  He  slept  the  sleep,  not  of  the 
just,  but  of  those  who  have  drunk  too  deeply. 

Miguel  started  again  to  crawl,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  he  came  out  from  under  the  shadow  of 
the  tree  into  the  clear  moonlight  of  the  open 
field.  A  night  breeze  swayed  softly  among  the 
growing  wheat ;  and  a  little  way  off  across  the 
field  the  house  of  the  lone  poplar  gleamed 
white  under  the  moon.  Miguel  looked  at  the 
house  with  the  tall  tree  beside  it;  and  suddenly 
all  that  had  happened  came  back  to  him  with 
a  rush. 

"Rafaela — Rafaela  Montijo,"  he  murmured 
weakly. 

He  would  go  to  her.  Painfully  he  began  his 
weary  pilgrimage  across  the  wheat-field.  The 
rough  ground  hurt  his  hands,  and  the  grain 
stalks,  wet  with  dew  of  night,  brushed 
against  his  face  and  cut  it.  Every  move  was 
torture  to  his  racked  body,  but  still  he 
toiled  on.  He  must  get  away  from  the  man 
under  the  liveoak ;  he  must  reach  the  house 
of  the  lone  poplar!  The  little  way  across  the 
field  seemed  leagues  to  him.  Several  times, 
almost  fainting  with  pain  and  exhaustion,  he 
stopped  to  rest.  But  each  time  he  pushed  on 
again  indomitably. 

A   little   way   below   the   orange   hedge   at 


124  The  King's  Highway 

the  end  of  the  field,  he  paused  before  the 
dead  branch  of  a  tree  in  his  way.  His  head 
was  throbbing  now,  and  the  strange  numbness 
had  changed  to  a  sharp  pain.  Unconsciously 
he  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  when  he 
carried  it  away,  it  was  wet.  The  throbbing 
in  his  head  grew  louder  till  it  was  like  the 
roar  of  an  oncoming  earthquake.  A  mist 
floated  before  his  eyes,  and  he  fell  face 
downward  across  the  dead  branch  before 
him.  Clutching  it  eagerly  with  both  hands, 
he  lay  still.  To  his  disordered  brain,  he 
was  a  child  again  in  the  church  at  San  Juan ; 
and  the  piece  of  dead  wood  in  his  hands  was 
the  standard  of  the  processional  cross.  Madre 
de  Dios!  How  loud  was  the  noise  of  the 
earthquake  now,  and  how  terrible  the  pain 
in  his  head!  A  piece  of  falling  masonry  must 
have  struck  him — he  could  not  remember. 
Feebly  he  lifted  his  head ;  and  to  him  the  glint 
of  the  white  moon  on  the  polished  leaves 
of  the  orange  trees  was  the  light  of  candles 
burning  on  the  high  altar  in  the  sanctuary. 

"Padre — Padre  Vicente,"  whispered  Miguel 
brokenly. 

But  there  was  no  answer.  Then  the  terrible 
roar  of  the  earthquake  grew  louder,  and  the 
lights  on  the  altar  went  out. 


The  King's  Highway  125 

When  Miguel  next  opened  his  eyes,  he  found 
himself  in  bed  in  a  cool,  whitewashed  room. 
Long  bars  of  yellow  sunlight  lay  across  the 
floor,  and  through  the  open  windows  drifted 
the  heavily  sweet  odor  of  orange  blossoms. 
With  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers  came  the 
sleepy  twitter  of  linnets.  It  was  the  hour  of 
sunset. 

Miguel  stirred  faintly,  and  someone  moved 
in  the  room.  Something  cool  was  laid  across 
his  forehead ;  and  a  voice  whispered :  "Sleep — 
go  back  to  sleep."  His  eyes  closed;  and  soon 
the  scent  of  orange  flowers  and  the  twitter 
of  linnets  mingled  in  his  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
Spotted  Lilies  and  White 

WHEN,  the  morning  after  Miguel's 
visit  at  the  house  of  the  lone  pop 
lar,  Dona  Epifania  thought  that 
she  would  like  an  orange  before  breakfast, 
she  looked  for  her  niece  to  gather  it.  But 
Rafaela  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  No 
doubt  she  had  gone  on  one  of  those  early 
morning  rides  on  that  precious,  white  horse 
of  her's.  Very  well,  Dona  Epifania  would 
pluck  her  own  orange.  For,  among  all 
the  horde  of  servants  that  swarmed  in  the 
courtyard,  there  was  not  one  to  whom  she 
would  entrust  the  delicate  task  of  selecting 
an  orange  for  her  to  eat.  Rafaela  now,  though 
far  from  perfect  in  many  ways,  possessed  keen 
discrimination  in  the  matter  of  oranges.  It 
was  like  her  to  run  off  just  when  she  was 
needed.  Grumbling  to  herself,  Dona  Epifania 
stepped  out  of  her  front  door  and  made  her 
way  around  the  house  toward  the  orange 
hedge.  Stout,  dignified,  and  black  gowned, 
the  Dona  was  a  typical  Spanish  Californian 
lady  of  the  Mission  days.  Though  she  was 
nearly  sixty  years  old,  her  olive  skin  was  not 


The  King's  Highway  127 

deeply  wrinkled,  nor  were  her  black  eyes 
dimmed.  A  crown  of  smooth,  gray  hair  sur 
mounted  a  face  that  had  been  handsome  once, 
and  was  striking  yet. 

In  her  day  Dona  Epifania  had  been  famed 
for  her  beauty  all  up  and  down  the  California 
coast;  and  \vhen  she  married  Lugarde  Montijo, 
it  was  considered  a  splendid  match.  Epifania 
Bonafacio  was  young,  handsome  and  wealthy ; 
Lugarde  Montijo  was  middle  aged,  and  pos 
sessed  of  a  fair  amount  of  good  looks  and  an 
immense  amount  of  money.  Both  were  of  the 
proud  Castilian  blood.  Don  Lugarde  was 
nearly  eighty  now,  a  helpless  old  man ;  while 
at  sixty,  the  Dona  was  still  the  able-bodied 
and  active  mistress  of  her  house  and  lands. 

This  morning,  as  Dona  Epifania  walked 
around  the  house  after  her  orange,  it  was 
characteristic  of  her  that,  though  she  walked 
with  a  quick  step,  she  noted  several  things  that 
required  attention  along  the  way.  The  rose 
on  the  south  wall  needed  pruning,  and  the 
weeds  were  coming  up  among  the  holly-hocks 
at  the  end  of  the  veranda.  She  would  speak  to 
Jose  about  those.  And  the  bed  of  marigolds 
across  the  path  needed  water — they  had  been 
shamefully  neglected.  When  she  came  to  the 
hedge  of  oranges,  she  observed  that  all  the 
fruit  from  the  side  facing  the  house  had  been 


128  The  King's  Highway 

gathered.  Accordingly  she  walked  through  an 
opening  to  the  other  side.  Holding  up  her 
skirt  with  one  hand,  she  picked  her  way  daint 
ily  through  the  dewy  wheat,  when  suddenly 
she  noticed  a  spot  a  little  way  from  the  hedge 
where  something  had  crushed  the  growing 
grain.  Had  the  dogs  been  spoiling  the  wheat 
again?  Indignantly  Dona  Epifania  made  her 
way  thither.  But  it  was  no  dog  that  had 
crushed  the  grain  this  time. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Dona  Epifania  that 
she  neither  screamed  nor  fainted  when  she 
came  upon  a  young  man  apparently  dead,  face 
downward  in  the  grain  at  her  feet.  Instead, 
she  stooped  and  turned  him  over  where  he 
lay.  He  was  extremely  handsome,  and  by  his 
appearance  a  gentleman,  she  observed.  Then 
she  laid  her  hand  over  his  heart.  It  still 
beat,  though  rather  faintly. 

Inside  of  a  few  minutes,  Dona  Epifania  had 
summoned  help  and  had  installed  the  young 
man  in  one  of  the  best  rooms  in  her  house. 
The  Dona  was  sometimes  accused  of  being 
cold  and  lacking  in  sympathy;  but  she  could 
never  be  said  to  fail  in  generosity  or  hospital 
ity.  At  her  hands  the  poorest  wayfarer  always 
received  food,  clothing  and  shelter  according 
to  his  need.  If  after  this  he  asked  her  sympa 
thy  also,  and  in  so  doing  came  against  a  blank 


The  King's  Highway  129 

wall,  it  was  none  of  her  fault.  She  had  given 
him  all  that  she  had  to  give — what  more 
could  she  do? 

Miguel  however,  when  Dona  Kpifania  came 
upon  him  in  the  wheat-field,  was  in  more 
direct  need  of  someone  to  bind  up  his  wounds 
than  of  anyone  to  shower  kind  words  upon 
him.  The  good  lady  was  therefore  in  her 
element ;  and  in  the  space  of  a  remarkably 
short  time  everything  that  could  possibly  be 
done  for  his  welfare  had  been  accomplished. 

When,  a  few  moments  later,  Rafaela  ap- 
pered  on  the  scene,  and  seeing  the  unfor 
tunate  young  man,  apprised  her  aunt  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  a  friend  of  the  San  Juan 
padre,  and  a  prospective  priest  himself,  Dona 
Epifania  redoubled  her  efforts  in  his  behalf. 
The  Dona  was  a  very  religious  woman,  and 
her  respect  and  veneration  for  the  priesthood 
were  marvelous.  One  of  her  two  sons,  who 
had  died  in  infancy,  she  had  destined  for  the 
Church  had  he  lived ;  and  who  shall  say  that, 
at  sight  of  this  wounded  young  man  almost  a 
priest,  a  tender  chord  in  her  seemingly  hard 
nature  was  not  struck?  At  any  rate  the  Dona 
took  it  upon  herself  to  care  for  Miguel  with 
her  own  hands ;  and  if  he  had  been  a  king,  he 
would  have  received  no  better  attention  from 
her. 


130  The  King's  Highway 

As  for  Rafaela,  she  kept  her  thoughts  on 
the  subject  to  herself.  Had  it  not  been  for 
the  finding  of  Miguel  in  the  wheat-field, 
Dona  Epifania  would  never  have  heard  of 
the  return  of  the  picture  that  Antonio  had 
carried,  and  all  that  it  entailed.  Since 
she  had  come  to  live  with  her  aunt  after 
the  death  of  her  father  in  the  City  of  Mexico 
early  that  spring,  Rafaela  had  learned  to 
expect  no  sympathy  from  her.  In  matters  of 
food,  dress,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  Rafaela 
had  found  her  slightest  wish  anticipated,  but 
otherwise  she  came  to  look  for  nothing.  It 
was  natural,  therefore,  that  she  should  grow 
to  keep  her  thoughts  to  herself. 

But  the  presence  of  Miguel  in  the  wheat- 
field  demanded  explanation,  and  that  explana 
tion  lay  in  the  power  of  Rafaela  to  give.  Dona 
Epifania  had  not  been  at  home  during  the 
visit  of  Miguel  the  day  before;  and  the  story 
of  his  coming  required  some  information  as 
to  his  errand.  The  Dona  said  nothing  at  the 
story  of  Antonio  and  the  picture.  But  when 
her  niece  suggested  that  it  might  be  kind  to 
send  word  to  the  San  Juan  padre  of  the  mis 
fortune  that  had  befallen  the  young  man,  she 
scoffed. 

"I  shall  not  allow  the  good  padre  to  be 
worried  needlessly,"  she  declared  with  righte- 


The  King's  Highway  131 

ous  determination.  "The  boy  will  be  up  and 
away  on  his  journey  in  a  few  weeks,  and  the 
good  padre  need  be  none  the  wiser  until 
afterwards." 

From  Miguel's  conversation  the  day  before, 
Rafaela  had  inferred  that  the  young  man  and 
Padre  Vicente  loved  each  other  deeply.  If 
she  were  in  the  padre's  place,  thought  Rafaela, 
she  would  want  to  know  if  anything  had  hap 
pened  to  Miguel.  But  Dona  Epifania  decreed 
otherwise,  and  Rafaela  did  not  press  her  point. 
It  was  wiser  to  refrain. 

A  week  passed,  and  under  the  skilful  min 
istrations  of  Dona  Epifania,  Miguel  was  much 
improved.  The  wound  in  his  head,  though 
painful,  had  not  proved  serious;  but  his  leg 
had  been  badly  sprained  and  took  longer  to 
recover.  As  the  young  man  grew  better,  he 
required  less  attention  in  one  way  and  more 
in  another.  As  long  as  he  had  needed  wet 
bandages  on  his  head  and  hot  cloths  on  his 
leg,  the  Dona  was  ready  to  anticipate  his 
slightest  want.  But  now  that  all  he  wished  to 
do  was  to  sit  in  a  big  chair  on  the  veranda 
and  be  amused,  she  began  to  lose  her  interest. 
She  had  too  much  to  do  to  waste  her  time  in 
amusing  any  man — even  if  he  were  a  pros 
pective  priest.  If  he  had  been  an  archbishop, 
or  the  Pope  himself,  it  would  have  made  no 


132  The  King's  Highway 

difference.  Dona  Epifania  would  have  made 
sure  that  he  was  comfortably  placed;  that  he 
was  neither  hungry  nor  thirsty;  and  then  her 
personal  attentions  would  have  ceased,  as  they 
did  with  Miguel. 

As  for  that  young  man,  he  was  content 
enough  to  be  left  to  the  tender  mercies  of 
Rafaela.  Day  by  day  he  sat  on  the  veranda 
with  her  and  his  breviary  his  sole  companions. 
She  was  one  of  those  rare  souls  who  know 
when  to  speak  and  when  to  be  silent;  and 
Miguel  found  her  presence  sweet  and  gra 
cious.  Little  by  little  she  learned  the  story 
of  his  miraculous  rescue  from  the  waves;  his 
life  at  San  Juan ;  the  terrible  earthquake ;  his 
dedication  to  the  priesthood ;  but  above  all,  the 
love  of  Padre  Vicente. 

"How  you  must  love  him !"  she  said  gently 
as  they  sat  on  the  veranda  one  morning;  he 
with  his  fingers  in  his  open  breviary,  she  busy 
with  her  needle. 

"Yes,"  answered  Miguel.  "He  is  father  and 
mother  both  to  me.  Sometimes  I  think  I  love 
him  more  than  I  could  have  loved  both." 

"A  love  passing  the  love  of  woman,"  quoted 
Rafaela  softly. 

Miguel  looked  at  her  gratefully.  How  she 
understood ! 

"It  is  like  that,"  he  said  slowly. 


The  King's  Highivay  133 

"I  think  I  never  loved  anyone  so  much," 
went  on  Rafaela  after  a  moment,  "except  my 
mother,  and  she  died  when  I  was  very  little, 
only  ten  years  old.  They  say  I  am  like  her," 
she  added  thoughtfully. 

"She  must  have  been  very  beautiful,"  re 
plied  Miguel.  Then  he  realized  what  he  had 
said.  He  had  not  meant  to  say  it,  and  shame 
facedly  he  looked  at  Rafaela  to  see  what  effect 
his  words  had  had.  But  she  did  not  appear 
to  have  noticed  the  connection. 

"She  was  wonderful,"  she  said  dreamily,  and 
for  a  moment  her  work  fell  unheeded  in  her 
lap.  "I  thought  that  she  was  as  beautiful  as 
the  angels;  and  when  she  died,  I  am  afraid  I 
prayed  to  her  almost  as  mucn  as  I  did  the 
Virgin!  Do  you  think  that  was  wrong?" 

"No,"  said  Miguel. 

"The  priest  who  confessed  me  said  that  it 
was.  Perhaps  he  was  mistaken.  Anyhow  I 
did  not  think  it  was  wrong  when  I  did  it." 

"It  was  not  wrong,"  repeated  Miguel. 

"I  am  glad  you  do  not  think  it  was  wrong," 
she  said  simply. 

They    were    both    silent    for    awhile.      Then 
Rafaela  spoke  again. 

"If  my  mother  had  lived,  I  think  I  should 
never  have  promised  to  marry  Antonio.  But 
my  father  wanted  me  to  marry  him,  and  I 


134  The  King's  Highway 

knew  no  better — I  was  only  sixteen."  She 
smiled  a  bit  absently.  "He  was  twenty-six 
then,  handsome  and  dashing — as  he  was  when 
you  knew  him." 

Miguel  nodded  reminiscently. 

"I  thought  I  loved  him,"  she  continued 
regretfully.  "I  was  a  child — how  should  I 
know  that  it  was  only  a  fancy?" 

"She  would  have  known — your  mother," 
said  Miguel  quietly.  How  should  he  know 
anything  of  a  mother,  he  who  had  lived  from 
babyhood  in  a  monastery?  Yet,  in  some  mys 
terious  way  he  did  seem  to  know. 

"For  a  while  I  went  on  thinking  I  loved 
him,"  said  Rafaela  slowly.  "Then  I  found 
that  I  did  not  love  him — and  that  I  never 
could."  She  paused,  as  if  reluctant  to  finish 
the  story  she  had  begun ;  but  a  look  into 
Miguel's  black  velvet  eyes  reassured  her. 
They  said  :  "Tell  me  ;  I  will  understand." 

"It  was  like  this,"  she  said.  "My  mother 
died  on  Easter  Sunday,  the  year  I  was  ten 
years  old.  The  year  I  was  seventeen,  the 
thought  came  to  me  to  offer  a  lily  to  her 
memory  on  Easter  Day.  So  I  took  the  bulb 
and  cared  for  it  myself."  She  paused,  and 
Miguel  leaned  forward  in  his  chair. 

"And  it  bloomed  in  time?"  he  queried 
eagerly. 


The  King's  Highway  135 

"Yes,"  answered  Rafaela  in  a  low  tone,  "it 
bloomed  in  time."  Something  in  her  voice 
was  strangely  uncertain,  and  for  a  moment 
she  looked  across  the  fields  to  the  south. 
When  her  eyes  met  his  again,  they  were  per 
ilously  near  to  tears. 

"It  happened  only  three  years  ago  this 
spring,"  she  said  as  if  explaining  something. 
"My  mother's  lily  bloomed,  beautiful  and  pure 
and  white  like  her  own  soul.  I  was  very  happy 
over  it.  I  would  take  it  to  church  on  Easter 
morning,  and  afterward  1  would  put  in  on  my 
mother's  grave." 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  Miguel. 

"I  am  telling  you  this,"  she  said  impulsively, 
because  you  will  understand.  Some  people 
would  think  I  was  foolish." 

"I  shall  understand,"  he  said  gravely. 

"The  lily  meant  a  great  deal  to  me,"  said  the 
girl  evenly,  "because  it  was  pure  and  spot 
less — a  fit  offering  to  her  memory ;  and  because 
I  had  cared  for  it  myself.  It  was  mine  to  give. 
But  the  night  of  the  Friday  before  Easter, 
something  terrible  happened.  The  lily  was 
growing  in  a  jar  in  the  courtyard,  and  that 
night  the  dogs  got  to  fighting  and  knocked 
it  over.  They  broke  it  in  pieces — my  beautiful 
lily  was  ruined."  Rafaela  hesitated,  but  a 


136  The  King's  Highway 

glance  at  Miguel  assured  her  of  a  sympathy 
that  was  not  to  be  doubted. 

"I  was  heartbroken,"  she  went  on.  "It  was 
not  that  mine  was  the  only  lily.  There  were 
plenty  of  flowers  in  our  garden,  and  the  flower 
market  was  full  of  them.  My  father  would 
have  bought  me  a  sheaf  of  lilies,  but  I  would 
have  none  of  them.  I  had  not  watched  over 
those  and  cared  for  them  as  I  had  mine.  And 
then — "  her  voice  shook  a  little,  but  she 
steadied  it — "then,  the  day  after  my  lily  was 
killed,  Antonio  came  in  and  found  me  crying. 
He  tried  to  comfort  me,  but  he  did  not  under 
stand.  Poor  Antonio — he  really  loved  me." 
she  said  pathetically.  "'He  did  not  understand. 
He  went  out  to  find  me  another  lily.  It  was 
late,  and  there  were  no  more  white  lilies  in 
the  flower  market.  But  there  were  yellow 
ones  with  dark,  reddish  spots — tiger  lilies.  To 
Antonio  a  lily  was  a  lily.  Perhaps  he  did  not 
even  remember  that  mine  had  been  white.  He 
brought  me  the  spotted  lily." 

Miguel  looked  at  her  in  horror. 

"He  brought  you  the  spotted  lily!"  he 
echoed. 

"Yes."  said  Rafaela  evenly.  "He  did  not 
think  that  the  color  would  make  any  difference 
to  me — that  was  what  he  said.  But — to  carry 
that  yellow  lily  to  church  in  place  of  my  pure, 


The  King's  Highway  137 

white  one;  to  put  the  spotted  flower  on  my 
mother's  grave — I  could  not — no,  I  could  not 
do  it!  Then  I  knew  that  I  had  never  loved 
Antonio — and  that  I  could  never  love  him. 
He  said  that  I  would  learn  to  care  for  him,  so 
things  went  on  as  before.  But  I  never  did, 
though  I  tried  very  hard ;  for  I  felt  kindly  to 
ward  him.  He  loved  me  very  much.  But  he 
did  not  understand.  The  lily  was  not  the 
only  thing — it  was  the  same  with  everything 
else.  He  could  not  understand  me ;  I  could 
not  love  him.  We  were  a  sorry  misfit,"  she 
finished  sadly,  "yet  he  truly  loved  me.  He 
meant  to  be  good  to  me — poor  Antonio." 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke.  Across  the 
pages  of  Miguel's  breviary  they  looked  at  each 
other.  She  thought:  "You  would  have  under 
stood."  He  thought:  "I  should  have  known. 
I  could  never  have  brought  you  the  spotted 
lily." 

Suddenly  Rafaela's  face  grew  hot,  and  she 
looked  away.  Seeing  this,  Miguel  felt  self-con 
scious  in  her  presence  for  the  first  time.  Per 
haps  each  guessed  the  other's  thought — who 
knows? 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  old  Rosa  ap 
peared,  bearing  Miguel's  noon  meal  on  a  tray. 
Her  coming  relieved  the  situation ;  but  Rafaela 
did  not  speak  of  the  lily  again  that  morning. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
The  Hem  of  Her  Garment 

IN  the  house  of  the  lone  poplar  the  days 
went  by  swiftly.     May  passed  into  June, 
and  the  coming  of  summer  touched  all  the 
hills  with  brown.    On  the  long  veranda  Miguel 
still  sat  and  listened  to  the  linnets  in  the  hedge 
of  oranges,  and  the  noise  of  horses'  feet  on 
the  King's  Highway.    In  a  few  days  he  would 
set  out  again  on  his  journey  into  Mexico,  and 
Rafaela  would  be  left  behind. 

Somehow,  thought  Miguel,  they  had  never 
been  quite  the  same  since  .the  morning  when 
she  had  told  him  the  story  of  the  lily.  That 
had  been  a  crucial  moment  for  both  of  them. 
She  knew  that  he  was  a  man  fit  for  love  and 
war,  but  he  had  been  dedicated  to  the  priest 
hood.  He  knew  that  she  was  a  woman  born  to 
be  loved,  but  he  might  not  tell  her  so.  Subtly 
enough,  these  things,  known  before,  were 
written  more  largely  on  the  horizon  of  both 
man  and  woman  after  the  story  of  the  lily. 
Words  spoken  now  held  a  strange  meaning; 
and  each  read  the  other's  actions  in  a  different 
light.  And  in  the  days  that  followed,  they 


The  King's  Highway  139 

found  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  both 
bitter  and  sweet. 

Long  before  the  day  came  for  his  departure, 
Miguel  knew  that  he  loved  her.  The  know 
ledge  had  not  come  to  him  suddenly;  he  had 
grown  into  it  slowly,  and  his  conviction  was 
therefore  the  more  sure.  And  now  that  he  was 
about  to  leave  her,  he  knew  that  his  love  had 
begun  when  he  had  first  caught  sight  of  her 
under  the  palm  trees  at  San  Diego.  Again  and 
again  he  saw  her  as  she  had  looked  then — slim 
and  straight  in  her  saddle,  the  gold  of  the 
sun  in  her  hair.  The  embers  of  Old  Desire 
smouldered  no  longer;  they  had  flamed  into 
hot  fire,  and  in  his  soul  Miguel  knew  that 
many  waters  could  not  quench  it.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  the  call  of  the  King's 
Highway  was  made  plain  to  him.  No  longer 
was  it  vague  and  far  off,  for  Rafaela  was 
present  with  him.  She  it  was  who  had 
called  him  long  ago  when,  as  a  child, 
he  had  stood  in  the  broad  trail  of  the  King's 
Highway  below  San  Juan  Capistrano  and 
gazed  hungrily  into  the  distance.  Though  he 
had  not  known,  and  she  had  not  known,  it  was 
so.  He  pictured  her  as  she  must  have 
looked  then — a  little  girl  in  a  soft, 
white  dress  with  the  sun  in  her  hair, 
playing  in  the  courtyard  garden  of  a 


140  The  King's  Highivay 

house  in  the  City  of  Mexico.  Then  he  im 
agined  her  lonely  and  forsaken  in  the  great 
house  when  her  mother  had  died.  For,  though 
Rafaela  had  not  said  it,  Miguel  knew  that 
her  father  had  been  one  of  those  who  did  not 
understand.  Over  the  coming  of  Antonio 
Terrazzas,  Miguel  did  not  linger  very  long; 
but  tenderly  he  thought  of  Rafaela  as,  a  lily 
herself  for  purity  and  beauty,  she  had  wanted 
to  offer  a  spotless  flower  to  the  memory  of 
her  mother.  Then  he  burned  with  indignation 
at  Antonio's  stupid  blunder.  Miguel  could 
never  have  done  such  a  thing — he  would  have 
understood;  he  loved  her  more  than  Antonio 
ever  knew  how  to  love.  But  he  might  not 
tell  her  so. 

An  inexpressible  pain  surged  over  him  as  he 
pondered  this.  She  was  his  by  right — she  had 
been  made  for  him ;  yet  he  might  not  take  her 
for  his  own.  The  knowledge  was  at  once 
sweet  and  bitter.  How  he  loved  her,  every 
thing  about  her — the  gold  of  her  dark  hair 
where  the  aureole  of  the  sun  lay  across  it,  the 
deep  pools  of  her  clear  eyes,  the  rich  tones 
of  her  wonderful  voice!  He  would  gladly 
have  laid  down  his  very  life  for  her,  yet  he 
might  not  tell  her  so!  Many  times  in  those 
last  days  on  the  veranda,  his  soul  cried  out 
for  him  to  rise  and  take  her  in  his  arms.  If 


The  King's  Highway  141 

Rafaela  happened  to  glance  his  way  then, 
she  was  frightened  at  the  desire  in  his  eyes. 
But  neither  of  them  ever  spoke. 

The  young  man  was  fighting  a  hard  fight. 
It  has  been  said  that  love  is  blind,  but 
strangely  enough,  Miguel  saw  now  with  a 
clearer  vision  than  before.  He  loved  Rafaela, 
but  something  else  held  him  back.  That  some 
thing  else  was  not  the  Church ;  it  never 
had  been.  He  realized  now  what  he  had  for 
gotten  years  ago — the  true  reason  why  the 
battle  went  as  it  did  when  Padre  Vicente 
knelt  by  his  bed  one  moonlight  July  night 
at  San  Juan.  The  conflict  that  raged  within 
him  now  was  not  one  between  love  and  duty. 
Miguel  was  torn  between  love  and  loyalty  to 
another  love,  and  the  struggle  was  far  harder 
than  the  other  could  have  been.  He  had  never 
been  a  priest  at  heart,  but  he  loved  Padre 
Vicente.  He  loved  Rafaela  too,  madly,  pas 
sionately;  yet  his  loyalty  to  the  priest  stood 
firm.  And,  being  the  man  that  he  was,  Miguel 
suffered  intensely.  As  a  boy  browsing  in  the 
Mission  library  at  San  Juan,  he  had  once  come 
across  the  world-old  question  of  the  immovable 
object  in  the  path  of  the  irresistable  force. 
He  had  carried  the  puzzle,  as  he  carried  all 
his  questions,  to  Padre  Vicente.  The  padre 
had  laughed  and  told  the  little  boy  to  try  it  and 


142  The  King's  Highway 

see.  But,  not  being  able  to  find  either  the 
irresistible  force  or  the  immovable  object, 
Miguel  had  been  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever. 
The  padre  said  that  perhaps  he  would  when  he 
grew  up.  Perhaps  he  would. 

It  was  the  eve  of  Miguel's  departure  from 
the  house  of  the  lone  poplar,  and  for  the  last 
time  he  sat  with  Rafaela  on  the  long  veranda. 
From  the  hedge  of  oranges  came  the  evensong 
of  the  linnets — it  was  the  hour  of  sunset.  For 
a  long  time  neither  had  spoken.  Then  Miguel 
looked  up  from  the  rose  in  his  hands. 

"I  saw  your  aunt  this  afternoon,"  he  said, 
"and  I  told  her  that  I  could  never  thank  her 
enough  for  all  that  she  has  done  for  me.  The 
Senora  Montijo  is  very  kind.  The  saints  will 
bless  her." 

"Yes,"  answered  Rafaela  without  enthusi 
asm. 

"And  you  too,  senorita,"  went  on  Miguel 
earnestly.  "You  have  done  even  more  than  the 
senora.  I  shall  never  forget  your  heavenly 
kindness  to  me." 

"Do  not  speak  of  it,"  returned  Rafaela  almost 
coldly.  "It  is  nothing." 

"Nothing!"  repeated  Miguel  warmly.  "Noth 
ing!  You  would  not  say  that,  senorita,  if 
you  knew  what  you  have  been  to  me!  Indeed 


The  King's  Highway  143 

you  would  not  say  it!"  Suddenly  he  stopped. 
He  had  not  meant  to  say  so  much. 

She  looked  up,  her  clear  direct  gaze  quite 
unruffled. 

"You  should  not  speak  of  it — it  has  been  a 
pleasure  to  me,"  she  said  in  a  matter  of  fact 
way.  "You  have  more  than  repaid  anything 
that  I  could  do.  You  have  understood." 

Miguel  wondered  if  she  knew  what  her 
words  meant  to  him.  For  a  moment  he  lost 
himself. 

"Then — then  you  will  not  forget  me?"  he 
asked  eagerly. 

"Forget  you?"  she  echoed  slowly.  "No,  I 
shall  not  forget  you." 

Her  words  were  simple,  but  to  Miguel  was 
carried  the  conviction  that  she  meant  more 
than  she  said.  For  a  moment  something 
welled  up  in  his  throat  and  he  could  not  speak. 
He  dared  not  look  up,  and  as  for  her,  she  said 
nothing.  He  wondered  what  she  thought. 

Suddenly  old  Don  Lugarde,  leaning  on  his 
stick,  shuffled  around  the  corner  of  the  house 
and  disappeared  through  the  hedge  of  oranges. 
At  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  Miguel  started 
almost  guiltily.  When  he  looked  up,  he  saw 
that  Rafaela  was  trembling.  She  rose  and 
walked  toward  the  door.  Then  she  paused  an 
instant. 


144  The  King's  Highway 

"You  will  pardon  me  if  I  go  into  the  house," 
she  said  rather  uncertainly.  "My  aunt  may 
have  something  for  me  to  do."  Then  she 
disappeared  through  the  door,  and  Miguel  was 
left  alone. 

That  night  he  could  not  sleep.  Through  his 
open  window  drifted  the  long,  white  glory  of 
the  summer  moon,  and  with  it  the  mingled 
odors  of  a  thousand  flowers.  Miguel  wondered 
if  Rafaela  slept.  Would  she  think  of  him — 
dream  of  him,  perhaps,  on  this  last  night  that 
he  lay  under  her  roof?  He  tried  to  put  the 
thought  from  him  as  unseemly  for  a  man  in 
his  situation,  but  it  would  not  leave  his  mind. 
He  had  not  spoken,  nor  had  she ;  but  he 
believed  that  she  cared.  He  remembered  that 
he  had  counted  Terrazzas  happier  asleep  under 
the  spring  grasses  than  alive  and  knowing  that 
Rafaela  did  not  love  him.  But  to  love  her,  to 
be  loved  again,  and  yet  be  forced  to  go  away 
and  leave  her — was  not  that  a  thing  infinitely 
more  hard  to  bear? 

For  he  must  go  away  and  leave  her.  No 
matter  how  much  he  loved  her,  no  matter  how 
eagerly  his  thought  followed  her,  he  always 
came  back  to  that.  It  is  not  easy  to  forget  the 
saint  one  has  loved  and  adored  for  twenty 
years,  especially  if  that  saint  is  alive  and 
walking  the  earth.  Incidentally,  a  saint  who 


The  King's  Highway  145 

has  not  tumbled  off  his  pedestal  after  twenty 
years  of  familiar  intercourse  with  his  adorer, 
must  be  worthy  the  name. 

No,  though  he  would  gladly  give  his  life 
for  her,  she  could  never  be  his.  Loyalty  to  a 
man,  not  to  the  Church,  held  him  back.  He 
knew  that  now,  and  since  he  had  taken  no 
vows  as  yet,  he  counted  it  no  sin  to  think  of 
her. 

Reverently  he  pictured  to  himself  what  life 
would  be  if  she  were  only  his — how  he  would 
love  her — what  he  would  not  do  for  her!  And 
such  a  home  as  they  would  have  together — a 
home  such  as  he  had  dreamed  of  but  never 
known.  He  saw  her  beside  the  chimney  with 
him  on  winter  evenings — howr  the  wrarm  fire 
light  would  play  over  the  glory  of  her  hair 
and  eyes!  But  it  were  better  not  to  think  of 
it,  since  it  could  never  be.  He  would  alwrays 
be  alone — a  somber  priest  offering  up  endless 
prayers  before  an  altar  that  had  never  kindled 
in  his  breast  the  holy  fervor  that  burned  in 
Padre  Vicente's.  He  had  never  been  meant 
for  a  priest,  but  Fate  had  contrived  to  make 
him  one.  He  was  a  man  however,  and  he 
would  play  the  game ! 

\Yith  the  thought  of  Padre  Vicente  came  for 
the  first  time  the  wonder  if  the  priest  had 
ever  passed  through  such  a  struggle  as  this. 


146  The  King's  Highway 

Miguel  remembered  the  story  of  the  pearl  told 
in  the  garden  of  San  Juan  so  long  ago. 

"He  gave  up  everything — home — friends — 
the  hope  of  joys  that  might  be  his  in  time  to 
come,"  the  priest  had  said. 

As  Miguel  had  grown  older,  he  guessed  that 
the  man  in  the  story  had  been  Padre  Vicente. 
What  would  he  have  done  at  a  time  like  this? 

Rising  from  his  bed,  Miguel  walked  over  to 
the  open  window  and  knelt  before  it.  Through 
the  opening  in  the  hedge  of  oranges  he  could 
see  the  wheat-field  still  and  white  under  the 
moon.  There  where  the  shadowy  trail  of  the 
King's  Highway  stretched  into  the  distance, 
the  lone  poplar  towered  like  a  giant  monk  in 
the  dimness.  Somewhere  in  the  oaks  in  the 
south  of  the  wheat-field  a  mocking  bird  was 
singing  to  his  mate.  Miguel's  head  went  down 
upon  the  window  sill,  and  the  prayer  that 
went  up  from  his  stormy  heart  was  not  one 
found  in  the  breviary.  Certain  it  was,  how 
ever,  that  he  had  never  prayed  so  earnestly 
before. 

A  soft  breeze  from  the  hills  touched  Miguel's 
hot  cheek  gently ;  and  after  a  time,  wearied 
out,  he  fell  asleep,  his  head  pillowed  on  the 
stone  window  ledge.  For  a  long  time  he  did 
not  stir,  and  when  the  pale  light  of  coming 


The  King's  Highway  147 

day  began  to  show  above  the  eastern  hills,  he 
dreamed. 

In  the  dream  Rafaela  was  walking  by  his  side 
in  the  padre's  garden  at  San  Juan  Capistrano. 
Miguel  thought  that  she  was  his  at  last,  and 
his  joy  was  unspeakable.  A  fair,  white  lily 
grew  beside  the  path,  and  he  stooped  to  gather 
it  for  her.  But  just  as  he  was  about  to  place 
the  flower  in  her  hand,  the  door  leading  from 
the  garden  into  the  sacristy  opened,  and  Miguel 
saw  Padre  Vicente.  A  look  of  terrible  agony 
marked  the  priest's  features,  and  silently  he 
beckoned  to  Miguel  to  come.  But  there  was 
Rafaela — how  could  he  leave  her  alone?  Still 
Padre  Vicente  stood  in  the  doorway,  his 
pleading  eyes  fixed  on  the  young  man's  face. 
But  Miguel  did  not  go.  A  cold  wave  of  terror 
swept  over  him,  and  he  stood  as  if  in  a  trance, 
unable  to  move  or  cry  out.  Then,  before  his 
eyes,  Padre  Vicente  disappeared  slowly,  as 
if  he  had  been  a  vision  or  a  ghost.  But  the 
young  man  did  not  move. 

Suddenly  he  awoke  with  a  cry.  A  cold 
sweat  broke  from  his  forehead  and  he  trembled 
violently.  In  the  east  the  rosy  flush  of  day 
lay  over  the  hills.  Miguel  struggled  to  his  feet 
and  began  to  dress  hurriedly.  His  cramped 
position  at  the  window  had  left  him  stiff  and 
sore,  and  a  strange,  dizzy  feeling  was  in  his 


148  The  King's  Highway 

head.  He  wanted  to  get  outdoors — he  wanted 
to  get  away  from  the  place  where  the  dream 
had  come  to  him. 

Wearily  Miguel  went  out  into  the  rosy  dawn. 
He  had  spent  an  almost  sleepless  night,  and 
his  eyes  were  heavy.  The  morning  song  of  the 
linnets  in  the  hedge  of  oranges  met  no  answer 
in  his  heart.  Would  that  the  day  were  over 
and  evening  come  again,  he  thought 
bitterly,  since  in  living  there  was  no  joy  at 
all!  Scarcely  knowing  why  he  did  so,  he 
wandered  aimlessly  around  the  corner  of  the 
house. 

Then  he  stopped,  his  heart  beating  wildly. 
There  in  the  shadow  of  the  oranges  stood 
Rafaela,  her  rosary  in  her  hands.  She  did  not 
see  him.  Her  face  was  lifted  to  the  morning 
sky,  and  Miguel  saw  that  she  had  been  weep 
ing.  All  the  young  life  in  him  leapt  up  at 
sight  of  her,  and  unconsciously  he  started 
forward.  A  wild,  unreasoning  joy  such  as  he 
felt  when  he  set  out  on  the  King's  Highway, 
clutched  at  his  heart.  He  forgot  that  he  must 
leave  Rafaela  that  day,  forgot  that  back  in  San 
Juan  waited  Padre  Vicente;  knew  only  that 
she  had  been  weeping  and  that  he  loved  her. 
Old  Desire  rose  up  in  his  soul,  and  the  flame 
of  it  burned  him  cruelly.  He  would  take  her 
in  his  arms  and  crush  her  to  him — if  only  for 


The  King's  Highway  149 

one  moment,  she  would  be  his !  He  loved  her 
— nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  could  ever  sepa 
rate  him  from  the  love  of  her ! 

Then,  as  he  started  forward,  all  the  fire  of 
his  soul  in  his  eyes,  she  turned  and  saw  him. 
Her  face  wore  a  strange  exaltation,  and  again 
she  was  like  the  angel  in  the  church  at  San 
Juan.  Miguel  stopped.  It  would  have  been 
like  laying  unholy  hands  upon  a  saint  to  have 
touched  her  then.  The  aureole  of  the  sun  lay 
across  her  head,  and  reverently  he  knelt  at  her 
feet. 

"Rafaela!"  he  whispered,  and,  lifting  the 
hem  of  her  garment,  he  kissed  it  passionately. 

For  an  instant  she  stood  looking  down  at 
him.  Tremblingly,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
hair. 

"Miguel!"  she  answered  softly,  and  there 
was  a  world  of  tenderness  in  her  voice.  Then, 
as  if  frightened  at  what  she  had  done,  she 
fled. 

*        *       * 

Later  that  morning  Miguel  was  riding  south 
ward  on  the  King's  Highway.  In  the  field  to 
the  right  a  meadow  lark  bubbled  over  with 
joy,  and  overhead  the  sun  was  shining  in  a 
turquoise  sky;  but  Miguel  neither  saw  nor 
heard.  No  longer  did  he  carry  the  picture  of 
Rafaela  over  his  heart.  It  was  graven  in  his 
soul. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
The  Shadow  of  the  Cross 

IN  the  valley  of  peace  summer  had  come 
and  gone.  Across  the  groves  and  vine 
yards  drifted  the  clear,  gold  haze  of 
autumn ;  and  down  from  the  blue  of  heaven 
floated  the  far  cry  of  the  cranes  winging  their 
way  southward  for  the  winter.  The  harvest 
was  nearly  over,  and  the  days  of  rain  were 
at  hand.  From  cloister  and  rancheria  alike 
came  the  din  of  labor  and  the  hum  of  voices. 
San  Juan  Capistrano  was  a  veritable  hive  for 
industry  that  year.  How  long  it  would  be 
before  the  hand  of  the  spoilers  would  overturn 
the  hive  and  scatter  its  store  of  sweets  was 
a  question  that  wisest  heads  were  puzzling 
themselves  to  answer. 

On  a  stone  seat  in  the  shadow  of  the  church 
wall  sat  Padre  Vicente  and  his  guest,  who 
was  none  other  than  the  padre  presidente 
Duran  himself.  Earlier  in  the  afternoon 
the  padre  presidente  had  met  the  San  Juan 
priests  in  the  consultation  room  of  the 
Mission,  and  now  he  and  Padre  Vicente 
lingered  talking  in  the  garden. 


The  King's  Highway  151 

Duran  tapped  impatiently  with  his  fingers 
upon  the  stone  bench. 

"I  tell  you  it  is  no  use  to  do  anything  at  all," 
he  said.  "They  will  not  listen  to  a  word  from 
us.  Even  now  they  are  casting  lots  for  the 
vesture  of  the  Church,  as  it  were." 

Despair  was  written  upon  Padre  Vicente's 
every  feature.  In  the  shadow  of  his  cowl  his 
face  looked  old  and  worn. 

"But  surely  they  cannot  mean  to  take  away 
the  rightful  heritage  of  the  Church — to  drive 
the  people  out  of  their  homes,"  he  insisted. 
"I  have  long  known  that  it  was  coming — this 
secularization ;  but  it  cannot  mean  the  end  of 
everything." 

Duran  smiled  grimly. 

"That  is  just  what  it  will  mean,  dear 
brother,"  he  answered  sadly,  "when  it  does 
come.  Just  when  that  may  be,  no  one  knows 
yet  certainly.  It  may  be  ten  years,  it  may  be 
only  one." 

"But  if  parishes  are  formed,  surely  the 
Church  cannot  lose  everything,"  faltered  Padre 
Vicente. 

An  expression  of  bitterness  passed  across 
Duran's  face. 

"You  do  not  know  them  as  I  do — these 
Mexicans,"  he  said.  "They  will  not  consider 
us  at  all.  We  are  Spaniards  of  the  old  school. 


152  The  King's  Highway 

Yes,  even  now  they  pretend  to  suspect  us  of 
intrigue  against  the  republic!  They  will  rob 
the  Church  of  everything  that  She  possesses, 
and  then  claim  that  it  is  done  in  the  name 
of  justice  and  the  welfare  of  the  people  they 
have  defrauded!"  His  voice,  calm  before, 
quivered  with  emotion.  "They  are  thieves 
and  robbers,  and  their  eyes  are  on  the  fat  of 
the  land.  I  tell  you  they  will  not  leave  us 
or  our  people  where  to  lay  our  heads !"  he  went 
on  indignantly.  "We  shall  be  among  the  dis 
persed,  'being  destitute,  afflicted, — wandering 
in  deserts  and  in  mountains  and  in  caves  and 
dens  of  the  earth !'  You  know  yourself  that 
they  have  filched  from  the  Pious  Fund  till 
there  is  a  mere  pittance  left!  It  would  beg 
gar  their  miserable  government  to  pay  back 
what  they  have  stolen." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  glancing  down  at 
the  violets  along  the  garden  path.  "For  a  long 
time  I  was  like  you,  dear  brother,"  he  said 
sadly.  "I  refused  to  believe  that  our  work  here 
was  at  an  end.  But  now  I  know  that  the  last 
days  are  come.  Our  beautiful  gardens  shall  be 
a  plowed  field.  The  spoilers  will  take  the  tiles 
from  our  cloisters  to  roof  their  pig  sties.  They 
will  tear  down  the  sacred  stones  of  our 
churches  to  build  their  houses.  Our  people, 
the  sheep  of  our  pasture,  they  will  scatter  and 


The  King's  Highway  153 

defraud  and  kill!"  He  opened  his  lips  to  say 
more,  but,  seeing  the  look  in  the  other's  eyes, 
stopped  short. 

"But  the  Church,"  cried  Padre  Vicente  in  a 
voice  of  agony,  "is  there  no  appeal  to  Her?" 

"To  the  Church?"  echoed  Duran,  "no, 
brother.  The  axe  is  already  laid  at  the  root  of 
the  tree.  The  Church  can  do  nothing." 

"Then  there  is  no  hope  to  save  anything — 
our  labor  is  at  an  end."  Padre  Vicente  spoke 
as  if  to  himself. 

"The  will  of  the  good  God  is  not  always  easy 
to  understand,"  said  Duran,  after  a  moment. 
"We  can  do  nothing  but  yield." 

He  rose  and  stood  looking  down  at  the  hud 
dled  figure  of  Padre  Vicente  on  the  stone  seat. 

"No,  we  can  do  nothing  but  yield,"  he  re 
peated,  after  a  moment.  "Our  people  will  be 
like  the  martyrs  of  the  early  Church.  They 
shall  all  have  their  reward." 

Padre  Vicente  turned  burning  eyes  to  the 
face  of  the  man  in  the  path. 

"May  the  good  God  have  mercy  upon  our 
people,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "for  they  are  not  of 
the  stuff  that  martyrs  are  made  of !  They  are 
the  veriest  children — they  are  not  strong  men 
— except  a  few.  In  the  hands  of  their  spoilers 
they  will  be  as  dead  leaves  in  a  winter  wind !" 
He  paused  as  if  the  words  choked  him,  then 


154  The  King's  Highway 

hurried  on,  his  voice  shaking.  "They  could  not 
escape  destruction  if  they  would !" 

With  a  stifled  sob,  Padre  Vicente's  head 
went  down  on  his  knees.  Gently  Duran  laid 
his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"Courage,  dear  brother,  courage,"  he  whis 
pered. 

Padre  Vicente  lifted  his  head.  His  eyes  were 
dry. 

"God  knows  that  I  would  give  my  life  for 
them!"  he  said. 

"He  knows,"  repeated  Duran  simply. 

When  Padre  Vicente  looked  up  again  his 
companion  had  gone.  In  the  square-paved 
path,  where  the  padre  presidente  had  stood,  lay 
a  dark  shadow  cast  by  the  great  cross  on  the 
belfried  wall  to  the  west  of  the  garden.  For 
a  moment  the  man  on  the  bench  gazed  at  the 
shadow,  silent,  fascinated.  A  look  of  awe  crept 
into,  his  eyes,  and  he  lifted  them  to  the  blue  of 
heaven. 

"Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  Him," 
quoted  the  priest  reverently. 

Then  he  rose  and  followed  Duran  into  the 
cloister. 

¥         *         * 

Harvest  days  were  over,  and  from  the  south 
came  the  rains,  folding  sleepy  San  Juan  valley 
in  their  soft,  gray  embrace.  The  mottled  syca- 


The  King's  Highivay  155 

mores  had  cast  their  leaves  in  yellow  drifts  at 
their  feet,  and  over  all  the  hills  crept  a  faint 
shimmer  of  green.  Winter  had  come. 

To  Padre  Vicente,  standing  in  the  shelter 
of  the  western  colonnade,  it  seemed  that  har 
vest  days  were  over  forever, — not  the  harvest 
of  yellow  wheat  and  ripe  olives  and  purple 
grapes ;  but  the  harvest  of  souls,  where  he  had 
labored  so  long.  The  soft  noise  of  the  rain 
water  as  it  sang  its  way  through  the  red  tile 
spouts  at  the  edge  of  the  roof  said  only  one 
thing  to  him.  Forever — forever — forever. 
The  harvest  was  over  forever.  Somewhere 
down  there  in  the  rain  at  the  Mission  gate  the 
King's  Highway  ran  past — southward  to  San 
Luis  Rey  and  San  Diego ;  northward  to  San 
Gabriel  and  Santa  Barbara,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  wonderful  chain  of  Franciscan  Missions. 
Years  ago,  soldiers  and  friars  of  Spain  had 
taken  possession  of  the  land  in  the  name  of 
the  King  of  Spain  and  of  the  Holy  Church  of 
God.  To  every  loyal  Franciscan  then,  the  ap 
pellation  :  "The  King's  Highway"  had  carried 
a  double  meaning.  The  name  referred  to  the 
reigning  monarch  of  Castile — yes ;  but  above 
all,  to  that  great  King  of  kings  and  Lord  of 
lords,  whose  footstool  was  the  earth,  and  whose 
throne  was  in  the  heavens.  All  claims  of  the 
King  of  Spain  to  territory  in  the  Californias 


156  The  King's  Highway 

was  wiped  out  now  by  the  Mexican  revolution. 
Had  that  other  King  forsaken  His  heritage, 
too?  Padre  Vicente  could  not  believe  that  He 
had,  yet  His  will  was  not  easy  to  understand. 
Why  should  the  good  God  permit  the  spoilure 
of  His  Holy  Church  and  the  scattering  of  the 
sheep  of  His  pasture?  Padre  Vicente  did  not 
know.  Was  it  because  His  servants,  the  Mis 
sion  fathers,  had  not  been  faithful  to  their 
trust?  Honestly,  Padre  Vicente  searched  his 
own  heart,  and  knew  that  he  had  fought  a  good 
fight.  It  was  his  belief  that  his  brothers  had 
done  the  same.  He  knew  that  in  the  days  of 
the  early  Church  God  had  allowed  His  people 
to  suffer  persecution;  that  it  had  been  in  ac 
cord  with  the  divine  will.  Was  the  coming 
upheaval  here  in  accord  with  that  will,  too? 
Why  had  the  God  of  all  the  earth  allowed  a 
splendid  host  of  churches  to  be  built  all  the 
way  from  San  Diego  to  San  Rafael,  only  to  let 
them  fall  into  the  hands  of  greedy  men,  whose 
god  was  gold?  Padre  Vicente's  eyes  searched 
the  gray  heavens  in  vain.  There  was  no  an 
swer.  Only  the  softly  falling  rain  sang  in  the 
spouts  at  the  edge  of  the  roof — forever — for 
ever — forever.  The  harvest  was  over  forever. 
Slowly  Padre  Vicente  paced  the  length  of 
the  colonnade,  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  square 
tiles  of  the  floor.  Why  had  God  required  of 


The  King's  Highivay  157 

him  the  best  years  of  his  life,  if  everything  was 
to  be  a  pitiful  failure  at  the  last?  While  it  is 
effective,  sacrifice  is  sweet,  but  in  a  needless 
renunciation  there  is  no  joy.  As  the  priest 
walked,  his  head  sank  upon  his  breast.  His 
eyes  were  half  closed,  but  he  saw  far  beyond 
the  square  tiles  of  the  floor — looked  almost 
fearfully  into  a  realm  he  had  turned  his  back 
resolutely  upon  for  years.  It  was  the  Land  of 
What  Might  Have  Been. 

In  every  life  into  which  stress  comes,  there 
is  a  Land  of  What  Might  Have  Been.  For 
years  Padre  Vicente  had  looked  backward  but 
seldom,  and  never  with  lasting  regret.  The 
present  joy  in  the  passion  of  service  had 
blotted  out  all  else.  But  now,  in  the  face  of 
the  coming  wreck  of  all  that  he  had  loved  and 
labored  for,  who  shall  say  that  Padre  Vicente 
was  the  less  a  saint  because  the  past  came 
back  to  him  insistently? 

Because  of  his  greater  opportunities,  Eva- 
risto  de  Dios  Artillaga  had  renounced  more 
than  most  men  do  in  taking  holy  orders.  He 
had  sacrificed  much ;  but  his  joy  had  been 
great  because  to  him  the  glory  of  God  counted 
more  than  the  glory  of  the  world.  But  now, 
amid  the  threatened  ruin  of  the  fabric  into 
which  he  had  woven  the  strands  of  his  life, 


158  The  King's  Highway 

the  phantom  of  What  Might  Have  Been  beck 
oned  to  him  mockingly. 

If  he  had  never  heard  the  call  of  the  Church, 
or,  if  hearing,  had  turned  a  deaf  ear,  how  dif 
ferent  his  life  would  have  been!  Possessed  of 
great  personality  and  great  wealth,  he  could 
probably  have  attained  his  highest  ambition. 
Nothing  would  have  been  denied  him ;  material 
welfare,  home,  friends,  love — all  might  have 
been  his.  Love — there  had  been  Rafaela — 
Rafaela  who  loved  him,  whom  he  loved.  Had 
it  been  worth  while,  his  renunciation  of  her? 
Had  her  life  been  happy  afterward?  How 
he  had  loved  her!  As  if  it  had  been  yesterday, 
Padre  Vicente  remembered  his  anguish  the  last 
time  he  had  looked  upon  her  face.  They  had 
said  nothing  to  each  other.  He  was  walking 
in  the  processional  in  the  cathedral,  a  young 
priest  just  ordained.  She  was  kneeling  in  the 
congregation,  slim  and  straight,  like  a  young 
angel  in  her  white  gown.  Only  for  an  instant 
her  clear,  high  gaze  met  his  as  the  procession 
passed  by;  but  that  instant  was  with  him 
yet,  thirty  years  after.  The  sacrifice  had  been 
terrible.  Had  it  been  worth  while — was  it 
worth  while  now  in  the  face  of  the  wreck  of 
all  that  he  had  sacrificed  for?  He  had  offered 
up  his  love  and  her's  upon  the  altar  of  Holy 
Church.  It  is  all  very  well  for  a  man  to  offer 


The  King's  Highway  159 

himself  a  sacrifice  to  his  zeal,  but  has  he  the 
right  to  offer  the  happiness  of  the  woman  who 
loves  him  also?  Had  he  spoiled  Rafaela's  life 
in  offering  up  his  own?  There  was  no  answer. 
Only  the  rain  in  the  tiles  sang :  Forever — for 
ever — forever.  Rafaela  was  lost  to  him  for 
ever. 

Yes,  right  or  wrong,  the  past  was  irrevocable 
now.  He  had  renounced  all  to  serve  Holy 
Church  in  New  Spain,  and  the  forces  of  Holy 
Church  in  New  Spain  were  all  but  routed  now. 
He  had  builded  his  life  into  a  tottering  wall. 
When  the  fall  came  he  would  be  homeless  and 
friendless,  a  defeated  man.  The  people  whom 
he  had  loved  better  than  his  own  life  might  ap 
peal  to  him  in  vain.  He  could  not  protect  them 
from  their  enemies. 

And  Miguel,  whom  he  had  loved  also — 
Miguel  was  even  now  in  Mexico  on  a  fruitless 
quest.  Padre  Vicente  had  thought  to  graft 
young  life  into  the  old  stock  of  the  Mission 
structure;  but  the  axe  was  already  laid  at  the 
root  of  the  tree,  and  no  bud  might  blossom  and 
bear  fruit  now;  it  could  only  shrivel  and  die 
where  it  was  set. 

In  the  gray  light  of  the  rainy  afternoon,  San 
Juan  Capistrano  gloomed  dull  and  cheerless. 
To  the  tortured  eye  of  the  man  in  the  shadow 
of  the  colonnade,  the  walls  were  already 


160  The  King's  Highway 

crumbling  to  decay,  devastated  by  the  pitiless 
hand  of  enemies.  He  saw  his  beloved  garden 
a  plowed  field;  his  orchards  neglected  and 
dying;  the  sacred  altar,  where  he  had  spent  so 
many  hours  in  prayer  robbed  of  its  gold  and 
silver;  but,  worst  of  all,  his  people,  the  sheep 
of  his  pasture,  a  prey  to  the  lusts  of  greedy 
men.  It  must  not  be — it  could  not  be — the 
good  God  would  not  let  it  be!  Yet  Padre 
Vicente  knew  that  it  would  be.  For  years  he 
had  steadily  refused  to  see  the  ruin  that  stared 
him  in  the  face.  He  could  not  choose  but  see 
it  now. 

Before  the  coming  of  Duran  a  week  ago, 
Padre  Vicente  had  walked  with  a  spring  in  his 
step.  He  had  held  himself  straight,  and  the 
fire  of  youth  had  gleamed  yet  in  his  dark  eyes. 
At  fifty-seven  he  had  been  still  a  young  man. 
Gently  Duran  had  forced  upon  the  priest  the 
realization  he  had  refused  to  face  for  years, 
and  the  knowledge  had  left  him  a  changed 
man.  Bravely  he  had  hoped  against  hope  for 
years;  and  now  that  the  last  hope  was  gone, 
the  spring  dropped  out  of  his  step,  the  straight 
lines  of  his  shoulders  began  to  sag,  and  the 
fire  slowly  died  from  his  eyes.  At  fifty-seven 
Padre  Vicente  was  already  an  old  man. 

Was  the  seeming  defeat  of  God's  Kingdom 
in  accord  with  His  will?  Did  He  know  that 


The  King's  Highway  161 

the  heart  of  His  servant  was  broken?  Care 
less  of  the  cold  rain  that  wet  his  shoulders 
under  the  coarse,  brown  robe,  Padre  Vicente 
sank  to  his  knees  in  one  of  the  corridor  arches. 
How  long  he  prayed  he  did  not  know,  but 
when  he  rose  to  his  feet,  the  Angelus  was  ring 
ing.  Cold  and  wet,  with  a  dull  ache  in  his 
body  from  kneeling  so  long  in  the  rain,  Padre 
Vicente  hurried  into  the  cloister. 

That  night  the  priest  knelt  until  midnight 
on  the  cold  steps  of  the  altar  in  the  sanctuary. 
The  church  was  dark,  and  he  could  not  see 
the  face  of  the  Christ  on  the  altar  above  him. 
But  he  knew  that  it  was  there;  and  in  that 
hour  it  brought  him  comfort,  though  the  only 
prayer  that  came  to  his  lips  was  the  petition 
voiced  in  that  same  place  years  before,  when 
all  seemed  dark : 

"O  Lord,  save  Thy  people  and  bless  Thine 
heritage, 

Govern  them  and  lift  them  up  forever!" 

Then  an  overwhelming  weariness,  such  as 
he  had  never  known,  crept  over  him,  and  rising 
from  his  cramped  position  on  the  cold  stones, 
he  made  his  way  to  his  cell.  His  shoulders 
were  still  damp  from  the  rain,  and  his  head  felt 
strangely  dull  and  heavy.  Lying  on  his  hard, 
narrow  bed,  he  fell  into  a  restless  sleep.  Out 
side,  the  rain  in  the  tiles  sang  drearily  and 


162  The  King's  Highway 

mingled  with  his  dreams :    Forever — forever — 
forever.     The  harvest  was  over  forever. 
*        *        * 

A  week  later,  the  clouds  had  gone,  and 
everywhere  the  sun  was  shining  on  the  clean 
red  of  tiles  and  the  polished,  dark  green  of 
oranges.  Swallows  twittered  in  the  eaves,  and 
through  all  the  cloister  went  the  din  of  happy 
labor. 

That  afternoon  Padre  Vicente  rose  from  the 
bed  where  he  had  lain  for  a  week,  and  walked 
unsteadily  down  the  courtyard  colonnade. 
For  fifty-seven  years  and  more,  he  had  known 
nothing  but  perfect  health ;  and  the  fact  that 
he  felt  somewhat  weak  and  uncertain  now,- 
annoyed  him  vaguely.  At  sight  of  the  joy  that 
greeted  him  in  all  the  dark  faces  along  the 
corridor,  Padre  Vicente  smiled  faintly.  They 
were  the  faces  of  his  people,  and  he  loved  them. 
At  the  south  end  of  the  corridor  the  priest 
came  upon  old  Pablo  leaning  upon  his  stick. 
Joy  leapt  up  in  the  wrinkled,  mahogany  face 
of  the  old  man. 

"May  all  the  saints  be  praised !"  cried  Pablo, 
"for  the  good  padre  is  well  once  more !" 

The  adoring  eyes  that  he  fixed  upon  the 
padre's  face  were  dim  and  of  a  bluish  cast,  like 
those  of  an  aged  dog.  Pablo  was  very  old  and 
feeble. 


The  King's  Highway  163 

"Blessed  is  he  whom  the  Lord  shall  take 
away  from  the  wrath  to  come."  Like  a  word 
of  prophecy  the  sentence  rang  in  the  ears  of 
Padre  Vicente. 

"The  good  God  has  blessed  you,  Pablo," 
said  the  priest  gently.  "May  His  peace  be 
ever  with  you."  Tenderly  he  placed  his  hand 
upon  the  old  man's  head  in  a  gesture  of  bless 
ing,  and  silently  passed  on. 

At  the  door  that  led  into  the  padre's  garden, 
he  paused  a  moment,  then  went  in.  All  along 
the  path  purple  violets  peered  from  underneath 
the  green  of  their  leaves ;  and  from  the  great 
oleander,  east  of  the  Church,  came  the  hopeful 
chirp  of  linnets.  No  longer  did  the  rain  sing 
drearily  in  the  tiles.  Everything  was  alive 
and  rejoicing:  the  glorious  sun,  the  springing 
flowers,  and  the  birds  twittering  among  the 
leaves.  Sunlight  lay  across  the  garden,  joyous, 
yellow  sunlight  that  sparkled  on  every  rain- 
washed  leaf  and  gleamed  on  every  satin  petal. 
Yet,  with  sunlight  came  shadows,  too;  for 
there  upon  the  tiled  path  at  the  feet  of  Padre 
Vicente  lay  the  shadow  of  the  cross  on  the  bel- 
fried  wall — long  and  dark  and  straight — the 
shadow  of  the  cross. 

The  priest  saw  the  shadow,  and  a  strange 
look  crept  into  his  face.  Silently  he  knelt  and 


164  The  King's  Highway 

kissed  the  place  where  the  shadow  lay.  When 
he  rose  his  eyes  were  triumphant. 

Dark  and  long  and  straight,  the  shadow  of 
the  cross  still  lay  along  the  path,  growing 
longer  and  darker  as  the  sun  sank  lower  in  the 
west.  Involuntarily  the  priest  bowed  his 
head. 

"Behold  the  servant  of  the  Lord — be  it  unto 
me  according  to  Thy  word,"  whispered  Padre 
Vicente. 


CHAPTER  XV 
Holy  Orders 

OVER  the  City  of  Mexico  brooded  the 
eternal  silences  of  the  stars.  Before 
the  little  window  of  a  cell  in  the  cloister 
of  San  Fernando  sat  a  young  man  in  the  som 
ber  habit  of  a  monk.  Eagerly  he  pressed  his 
hot  cheek  against  the  grating  of  the  window. 
The  far,  white  stars  that  gleamed  yonder  were 
the  same  that  shone  over  Capistrano,  and  the 
house  of  the  lone  poplar  at  San  Diego.  Was 
Rafaela  watching  the  stars  now?  Feverishly 
the  young  man  bent  his  head,  and  kneeling, 
tried  to  pray  that  the  saints  would  keep  the 
beautiful  Rafaela  Montijo.  But  his  petitions 
brought  him  no  comfort. 

For  Miguel  was  very  unhappy.  Day  after 
day  he  followed  the  wearisome  round  of  pray 
ers  and  tasks,  but  his  heart  was  not  in  them. 
When  he  tried  to  read  his  breviary,  the  clear, 
frank  eyes  of  Rafaela  came  between  his  and 
the  printed  page.  She  looked  at  him  from  the 
faces  of  frescoed  angels,  from  the  eyes  of  saints 
over  the  altar.  Wherever  he  went,  he  saw  her 
as  she  had  looked  that  last  morning  in  the  gar 
den  when  he  had  kissed  the  hem  of  her  gar- 


166  The  King's  Highway 

ment.  He  had  spoken  but  one  word  to  her: 
"Rafaela!"  She  had  understood,  and  she  had 
told  him  so  in  the  one  word  that  was  her  an 
swer:  "Miguel!"  What  a  depth  of  tender 
ness  she  had  put  into  the  exquisite  inflection 
of  that  one  word !  She  had  gone  away  sud 
denly  then,  without  saying  anything  more ; 
but  he  knew  that  she  loved  him.  He  could  not 
have  been  more  sure  of  it  if  she  had  spoken 
ten  thousand  impassioned  syllables.  That  one 
word  was  enough ;  he  knew. 

In  passionate  memory  he  pressed  the  hem 
of  her  garment  to  his  lips  once  more,  and  the 
scent  of  withered  rose  petals  that  had  clung 
about  her  filled  his  nostrils,  almost  suffocating 
him  with  its  sweetness. 

"Rafaela!"  he  whispered  brokenly. 

A  wave  of  agonized  yearning  surged  over 
him,  and  he  laid  his  head  upon  the  stone  win 
dow  ledge. 

"Dios  mio — Dios  mio!"  he  repeated  help 
lessly.  His  whole  frame  trembled,  and  when 
he  rose,  beads  of  sweat  stood  on  his  brow. 

He  crossed  the  room,  then  came  back  to  the 
window.  After  all,  had  he  done  right  in  leav 
ing  Rafaela  and  coming  to  Mexico,  all  because 
of  a  promise  given  to  Padre  Vicente  by  a  boy 
too  young  to  choose  for  himself?  Miguel 
knew  that  she  loved  him.  Had  it  been  right  to 


The  King's  Highway  167 

leave  her  among  those  who  neither  understood 
nor  loved  her — to  sacrifice  two  lives  on  the 
altar  of  a  promise?  And  was  it  entirely  right 
to  Padre  Vicente  to  hide  from  him  the  fact 
that  Miguel  could  never  render  to  the  Church 
more  than  a  half-hearted  service? 

For  nearly  six  months  Miguel  had  been  in 
the  cloister  of  San  Fernando,  and  every  day 
the  weary  round  of  prayers  and  pious  exer 
cises  had  grown  more  irksome  to  him.  He  had 
never  been  born  for  book  and  cassock  and  bell. 
The  blood  that  beat  in  his  pulses  might  have 
flowed  in  the  veins  of  generations  of  fighting 
men — men  who  dared  much  in  love  and  war; 
it  was  hot  enough,  and  it  throbbed  wildly 
enough.  At  any  rate,  it  was  not  the  sort  of 
blood  that  ought  to  flow  in  the  veins  of  a  man 
who  wore  the  garb  of  a  priest.  A  priest  should 
not  strike  a  man  across  the  face  with  his  riding 
whip.  A  priest  should  not  fall  madly  in  love 
with  a  beautiful  girl.  He  should  not  sit  and 
dream  of  her  when  he  tells  his  beads.  But 
Miguel  was  not  a  priest  at  heart,  though  he 
wore  the  habit,  and  had  entered  upon  his  no 
vitiate.  He  shrank  from  the  thought  of  the 
final  vows.  Could  he  ever  bring  himself  to 
take  them  ?  The  young  man  did  not  know. 

For  surcease  of . sorrow  seemed  as  far  off  as 
it  had  on  the  day  of  his  departure  from  the 


168  The  King's  Highway 

house  of  the  lone  poplar.  There  was  scarcely 
an  hour  in  the  day  that  the  face  of  Rafaela, 
with  the  aureole  of  the  sun  above  it,  did  not 
float  before  his  eyes.  He  only  slept  to  dream 
of  her.  A  man  of  less  strength  than  his  would 
have  broken  away  from  the  cloister  long  ago; 
perhaps  he  would  never  have  reached  it  in  the 
first  place.  Indeed,  there  had  been  times  since 
his  arrival  when  Miguel  had  all  but  abandoned 
everything  to  answer  the  silent  call  of  the 
woman  he  loved.  But  loyalty  to  Padre  Vicente 
had  held  him  back. 

Days  passed,  and  a  new  side  of  the  ques 
tion  came  to  light.  As  Miguel  became  ini 
tiated  into  the  sacred  mysteries  of  the  priest 
hood,  he  believed  that  he  saw  with  more  of 
the  vision  of  Padre  Vicente.  Was  it  right  to 
enter  holy  orders  when  he  could  not  give  his 
whole  heart  to  the  service  of  Holy  Church? 
For  Miguel  knew  that  he  could  never  make  a 
whole-souled  priest — he  had  no  vocation. 
Even  if  he  had  not  loved  Rafaela,  he  would 
still  have  had  no  vocation.  Years  ago,  in  Old 
Spain,  when  Evaristo  Artillaga  had  entered 
holy  orders,  he  had  set  aside  a  love  as  strong, 
if  not  stronger  than  the  love  of  Miguel  for 
Rafaela  Montijo.  He  had  done  this  because  of 
the  greater  passion  that  dominated  his  soul. 
But  with  Miguel  there  was  no  greater  passion 


The  King's  Highway  169 

than  his  love  for  Rafaela.  Ought  he  to  sacrifice 
all  to  the  loyalty  to  a  promise — a  promise  lived 
rather  than  spoken?  If  Padre  Vicente  knew, 
would  he  want  Miguel  to  offer  up  an  empty 
service  where  no  heart  was?  Knowing  the 
heroic  stature  of  the  soul  of  the  priest,  Miguel 
could  not,  in  justice,  answer  yes.  But  the  an 
swer  was  hard,  for  he  loved  Padre  Vicente. 
He  could  not  go  to  the  priest  and  say,  "I  have 
betrayed  your  trust,  mistaken  my  calling — 
broken  my  promise  and  your  heart."  He  could 
not  do  that.  What  should  he  do? 

The  cold,  white  stars  gave  no  sign.  Per 
haps  even  now  they  looked  into  the  upturned 
gaze  of  the  priest  of  Capistrano — perhaps  the 
clear,  dark  eyes  of  Rafaela  caught  their  gleam. 
For  a  long  time  Miguel  stood  before  the  win 
dow.  What  should  he  say  to  Padre  Vicente? 

Then,  suddenly,  without  any  warning  at  all, 
Miguel  saw  before  him  the  face  of  Rafaela 
Montijo.  As  on  that  last  morning  before  the 
hedge  of  oranges,  there  were  traces  of  tears 
on  her  face — tears  that  she  had  shed  for  him — 
and  the  sight  of  her  blotted  out  all  else  from 
his  eyes.  In  his  soul,  the  hot  flame  of  Old 
Desire,  wild,  unreasoning  and  unconquerable, 
rose  up  and  stifled  him  with  resistless  passion. 
She  was  his — how  could  he  ever  have  left  her? 
Stronger  than  the  very  breath  of  life  itself, 


170  The  King's  Highway 

stronger  than  any  power  in  heaven  above  or 
earth  beneath  was  his  love  for  her.  He  would 
go  to  her — as  soon  as  it  was  light  he  would 
arise  and  go  to  her.  No  longer  could  the  clois 
ter  wall  separate  them.  His  blood  danced 
madly  in  his  veins,  and  his  nails  bit  savagely 
into  the  palms  of  his  hands.  The  eternal  laws 
of  God  said  that  she  was  his  by  right — the  God 
of  truth  and  justice  did  not  require  of  him  what 
was  not  his  to  give,  the  sacrifice  of  a  whole 
heart.  His  whole  heart  was  her's — the  good 
God  had  given  it  to  her.  Miguel  had  not 
meant  to  give  it ;  but  nothing  could  ever  take  it 
away  from  her  now.  She  should  have  what 
was  her's  by  right ;  she  should  have  it  speedily. 
The  very  next  morning,  as  soon  as  ever  it  was 
light,  he  would  leave  the  cloister  and  go  to 
her — to  Rafaela  Montijo,  the  well  beloved  of 
his  soul !  At  the  very  thought  of  her  his 
pulses  tingled  joyously,  and  he  gripped  the 
iron  bar  of  the  window  grating  as  if  he  would 
crush  it  in  his  fingers.  She  was  all  his — all ! 
She  loved  him ;  yes,  she  had  even  wept  for 
him !  Madre  de  Dios !  How  her  clear,  dark 
eyes  would  deepen  into  tender  light  when  she 
should  see  him  again !  Yes,  he  would  surely 
go  to  her.  He  would  take  her  in  his  arms,  as 
he  had  not  done  on  that  last  morning  when  he 
had  kissed  the  hem  of  her  garment.  He  would 


The  King's  Highway  171 

tell  her  that  he  loved  her — that  she  was  his, 
she,  Rafaela  of  his  heart! 

Weaned  out,  Miguel  flung  himself  upon  his 
narrow  bed.  In  a  moment  he  was  sleeping  as 
he  had  not  slept  since  he  had  come  to  San  Fer 
nando,  the  dreamless  sleep  of  youth.  Silence 
brooded  over  the  cloister,  and  outside  the  stars 
kept  watch. 

Early  the  next  morning,  with  the  call  to 
prayer,  came  a  knock  at  Miguel's  door.  Won 
dering,  he  opened  the  door.  Outside  waited 
a  brother  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"An  urgent  message,"  said  the  man  simply. 
He  put  the  letter  into  Miguel's  outstretched 
hand,  and  went  away  silently. 

At  sight  of  the  familiar  handwriting  on  the 
coarse,  grayish  white  paper,  Miguel  changed 
color.  With  trembling  fingers  he  tore  the  seal 
from  the  letter  and  devoured  its  contents 
anxiously.  The  last  word  read,  he  crushed  the 
paper  into  his  bosom  with  feverish  haste,  and 
hurried  out  into  the  corridor. 

The  call  to  prayer  rang  insistently  in  his 
ears  now,  but  he  did  not  heed  it;  neither  did  he 
see  the  questioning  faces  of  the  brothers  whom 
he  passed  in  the  corridor.  In  his  bosom,  the 
bit  of  crumpled,  grayish  paper  burned  him  as 
if  it  had  been  a  coal  of  fire.  He  must  find 
someone — must  tell  them  that  he  was  going 


172  The  King's  Highway 

away — that  he  must  go  at  once  to  Padre 
Vicente.  As  Miguel  hurried  along,  the  rosary 
at  his  side  slipped  and  fell  to  the  stone  floor 
with  a  tinkling  noise — the  silver  rosary  with 
the  ivory  crucifix  that  Padre  Vicente  had  given 
him  when  he  had  set  out  on  the  King's 
Highway  last  spring.  He  stooped  to  pick  it 
up.  In  the  dim  light  of  the  corridor  the  ivory 
crucifix  gleamed  white,  and  with  a  stifled  cry, 
Miguel  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"Padre     Vicente,"    he    whispered     eagerly, 
"Padre  Vicente,  forgive!" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
A  Dream  of  Old  Spain 

A,L  along  the  yellow  shore  below  San 
Juan  Point,  the  restless  seawater 
swirled  and  broke  in  a  thousand 
shifting  lights  of  sapphire  and  amethyst  and 
pearl.  Shining  and  cloudless,  the  great  bowl 
of  the  sky  met  in  a  long  line  the  level  plain  of 
the  sea.  Across  the  blue  of  heaven  flashed  the 
white  of  a  gull's  wing,  across  the  blue  of  the 
water  the  delicate  drift  of  spray ;  but  never  the 
shadow  of  a  sail.  It  was  the  first  of  January, 
and  such  a  perfect  day  as  can  happen  only  in 
midwinter  on  the  California  coast.  From  the 
valley  of  peace  to  the  southeast,  drifted  the 
mellow  voices  of  the  bells  of  San  Juan  Capis- 
trano.  It  was  the  hour  before  noon,  and  at 
the  sound  of  the  bells,  the  Indians  at  work  in 
the  fields  would  gather  at  the  Mission  for  their 
midday  meal  and  siesta. 

On  the  grassy  slope  of  the  sea  cliff,  sat 
Padre  Vicente.  All  morning  he  had  worked 
with  the  Indians  among  the  orange  orchards; 
and,  instead  of  going  to  the  Mission  at  noon 
as  was  his  habit,  he  had  chosen  to  eat  his 
frugal  meal  of  parched  corn  on  the  cliff.  The 


174  The  King's  Highway 

corn  disposed  of,  the  priest  sat  for  sometime 
gazing  out  over  the  expanse  of  sparkling  blue. 
There  was  something  essentially  joyous  in  the 
way  each  little  wave  leapt  up  to  answer  the 
call  of  the  wind ;  something  that  pleased 
Padre  Vicente  in  the  glint  of  the  sun  on  the 
water.  His  breviary  lay  unopened  in  his  lap, 
for  his  eyes  were  busy  with  that  which  was 
written  in  a  book  not  made  with  hands — the 
glory  of  God's  earth. 

It  was  a  part  of  the  nature  of  Padre  Vicente 
that  he  should  love  these  things.  Everything 
— the  shifting  play  of  kaleidoscopic  tints  in 
the  water  before  him,  the  soft  touch  of  the 
sea  air  on  his  face,  the  fresh,  sweet  smell  of 
the  growing  things  about  him,  the  velvety  feel 
of  the  young  grass  on  his  sandalled  feet,  and 
the  red-gold  flame  of  an  early  poppy  at  his 
side — all  these  things  brought  him  a  quiet  joy. 

Years  ago  at  a  time  like  this,  the  priest 
would  almost  unconsciously  have  lifted  up  his 
voice  in  the  ecstatic  words  of  the  Te  Deum : 

"Heaven  and  earth  are  full  of  the  majesty 
of  Thy  glory." 

Today,  though  his  appreciation  of  all  the 
beauty  round  about  was  no  less  keen,  his 
mood  was  rather  that  of  the  more  quiet  Nunc 
Dimittis : 

"Lord,  now  lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart 
in  peace, 


The  King's  Highway  175 

According  to  Thy  word ;  for  mine  eyes  have 
seen  Thy  salvation." 

Padre  Vicente  did  not  sing  the  words.  He 
repeated  them  softly  to  himself,  and  the  look 
of  peace  in  his  eyes  deepened  until  it  became 
almost  rejoicing. 

In  the  days  that  had  passed  since  he  had 
knelt  to  kiss  the  shadow  of  the  cross  in  the 
cloister  garden,  the  peace  that  passeth  under 
standing  had  come  again  to  Padre  Vicente. 
The  black  threat  of  awful  desolation  lay  writ 
ten  across  every  sunny  sky  for  him,  but  be 
yond  the  sky  was  the  face  of  God.  For  years 
the  priest  had  labored  among  the  Indians ; 
baptizing,  teaching,  toiling,  confessing,  ad 
ministering  the  last  rites,  and  burying  the 
dead.  Willingly,  he  would  have  died  for  his 
people ;  but  already  he  had  done  more — he  had 
lived  for  them.  The  good  God  had  given  him 
strength  for  all  these  things,  and  He  would 
not  fail  His  loyal  servant  now.  In  the  hour  of 
blackest  devastation  His  Presence  would  be 
there. 

"Lo,  I  am  with  you  alway,  even  to  the  end 
of  the  world." 

As  Padre  Vicente  sat  on  the  cliff  that  sunny 
noon,  there  came  back  to  him  the  words  of  as 
surance  that  he  had  spoken  to  Miguel  when 
Antonio  Terrazzas  had  died  nearly  a  year  ago. 


176  The  King's  Highway 

"The  will  of  God  is  never  cruel,  Miguel,"  he 
had  said.  "He  could  not  be  cruel,  for  He  is 
Love.  I  have  lived  a  long  while  and  I  know." 
And  had  he  not  known?  Padre  Vicente  felt 
that  the  words  that  he  had  spoken  were  true. 

"We  are  not  always  happy,  hijo  mio,"  he 
had  said,  "Sometimes  our  dearest  hopes, 
things  we  would  give  our  life  blood  for,  seem 
wrecked  before  our  eyes.  That  is  hard — very 
hard,  and  we  could  not  understand  if  this  life 
were  all.  But  this  life  is  not  all.  I  know." 

Padre  Vicente  knew.  Heartbreaking  ruin 
might  descend  upon  his  people  here,  but  the 
good  God  would  not  forsake  them  forever. 

"We  therefore  pray  Thee,  help  Thy  servants 

Whom  Thou  hast  redeemed  with  Thy 
precious  blood; 

Make  them  to  be  numbered  with  Thy  saints 
in  glory  everlasting." 

Padre  Vicente's  eyes  glowed  with  hope  in 
vincible.  The  way  was  hard,  cruel,  almost 
too  terrible  to  conquer;  but  by  the  help  of 
God,  he  would  conquer  it,  he  and  the  people 
that  the  Father  had  given  him.  The  way  was 
dark,  but  at  the  end  of  the  journey  there  would 
be  light. 

"Thine  eyes  shall  see  the  King  in  His 
beauty ;  they  shall  behold  the  land  that  is  very 
far  off." 


The  King's  Highway  177 

With  a  look  on  his  face  as  if  he  would  search 
the  very  gate  of  heaven,  Padre  Vicente  gazed 
into  the  blue  deeps  above ;  and  when  a  shadow 
fell  across  the  cover  of  his  breviary,  he  did  not 
look  around  at  first.  Then  a  soft  footstep  fell 
in  the  grass  at  his  side,  and  turning,  he  looked. 
Peace  died  in  his  eyes.  He  struggled  to  his 
feet. 

Slim  and  straight  in  her  riding  habit  of 
black,  Rafaela  Montijo  stood  on  the  slope  of 
the  cliff  and  looked  down  at  him.  Across  the 
dark  veil  of  her  hair  sparkled  the  aureole  of 
the  sun,  and  in  her  clear,  direct  eyes  he  saw 
the  same  high  look  that  he  had  known  thirty 
years  ago.  Wondering,  she  came  down  to 
where  he  stood,  and  gazed  steadfastly  into  his 
face.  Yes,  this  was  surely  Padre  Vicente. 
Only  Miguel  had  not  told  her  that  his  hair  was 
growing  white  about  the  temples. 

"You  are  Padre  Vicente  Artillaga,"  she  said 
simply.  "I  am  Rafaela  Montijo,  to  whom  you 
sent  a  letter  and  a  picture  last  May.  I  am  in 
trouble,  and  I  have  come  to  you  because  you 
are  the  only  person  that  can  help  me." 

Standing  there  looking  at  her,  Padre  Vicente 
swayed  uncertainly,  and  put  out  a  hand  as  if 
to  steady  himself.  Rafaela  saw  the  motion, 
and  started  forward  to  support  him. 


178  The  King's  Highway 

"You  are  not  well,  padre,"  she  cried  anxious 
ly.  "I  have  startled  you — let  me  help — 

"No,  my  daughter,"  said  the  priest  quietly. 
"It  is  nothing.  I  am  quite  well.  Sit  down  on 
the  grass  and  tell  me  your  trouble."  There 
was  an  infinite  tenderness  in  his  voice,  and 
Rafaela  looked  at  him  gratefully. 

Together  the  priest  and  the  girl  sat  down  on 
the  grassy  slope.  Mingled  with  the  sympathy 
in  the  man's  eyes  was  a  look  of  mute  suffering 
that  Rafaela  could  not  fathom.  She  saw  that 
it  was  there,  however,  and  her  heart  went  out 
to  the  man  in  the  coarse,  brown  robe. 

"I  knew  that  you  would  be  like  this,  padre," 
she  said  impulsively,  "so  beautiful  and  kind.  I 
was  afraid  to  come  at  first,  but  I  knew  that  it 
was  the  only  thing  to  do.  The  good  God  has 
led  me  here,  padre." 

"May  His  blessing  be  upon  you,  my  daugh 
ter,"  said  Padre  Vicente,  and  his  voice,  though 
tender,  was  strangely  shaken. 

"I  am  visiting  friends  on  a  ranch  toward  San 
Gabriel,  and  this  morning  I  rode  to  Capistrano 
on  my  horse."  She  glanced  backward  to  where 
a  white  horse  cropped  the  herbage  leisurely. 
"When  I  came  there,  they  told  me  that  you 
were  here,  and  a  little  Indian  called  Juanito 
showed  me  the  way.  ...  I  think,  for  you  to 


The  King's  Highway  179 

understand,  I  must  tell  you  about  my  mother 
first,"  she  went  on  slowly. 

Her  mother!  Did  the  girl  know  that  she 
was  the  very  reincarnation  of  her  mother?  Did 

she  know  that  her  mother  had  been ?     A 

terrible  storm  surged  within  the  breast  of  the 
priest,  so  terrible  that  he  could  scarcely 
breathe.  Thirty  years  count  a  long  time  in  the 
life  of  a  man,  but  sometimes  thirty  years  can 
be  as  one  day.  Across  the  years,  Padre 
Vicente  looked  into  the  face  of  the  woman  for 
whom  he  had  known  a  love  that  was  stronger 
than  death ;  but  the  eyes  that  he  fixed  upon  the 
face  of  her  daughter  gave  no  sign  of  the  tumult 
that  raged  within  him. 

"Tell  me  about  your  mother,"  he  said  stead- 
ily. 

"They  say  that  I  am  very  like  her,"  said 
Rafaela.  "When  my  mother  was  a  girl  in  Old 
Spain,  she  met  a  young  man  who  was  study 
ing  to  be  a  priest.  I  do  not  know  his  name. 
They  loved  each  other,  but  they  might  not 
marry,  because  he  was  destined  for  the  Church. 
He  went  awray,  I  do  not  know  where ;  but  I  be 
lieve  that  she  never  left  off  loving  him  while 
she  lived.  She  never  told  me  so,  but  I  believe 
that  that  is  true." 

As    long  as    she  lived!       The  question    un- 


180  The  King's  Highway 

answered  for  thirty  years  trembled  on  the  lips 
of  Padre  Vicente,  but  he  held  his  peace. 

"She  married  my  father  not  very  long  after," 
the  girl  went  on,  "and  came  to  live  in  the  City 
of  Mexico.  But  she  was  never  happy.  When 
I  was  a  child,  I  used  to  wonder  why  my  mother 
was  sad  so  often,  and  seldom  laughed.  Now  I 
know."  Rafaela  paused  to  gather  a  tiny,  yel 
low  field  daisy  that  grew  at  her  feet.  "It  was 
because  she  did  not  love  my  father,"  she  said. 
"She  could  not  love  him — they  were  not  alike 
in  anything.  What  he  loved  she  hated,  and 
what  she  loved  he  did  not  care  for.  I  did  not 
know  when  I  was  a  child,  but  I  think  now  that 
her  life  must  have  been  very  dreary.  She  died 
when  I  was  only  ten  years  old,  and  I  thought 
that  the  very  sun  was  darkened."  Her  voice 
quivered. 

Fire  that  had  slept  in  ashes  for  years  smould 
ered  anew  in  Padre  Vicente's  dark  eyes. 
Rafaela,  his  soul's  beloved,  had  died,  not  many 
years  ago — the  unhappy  wife  of  a  man  she  did 
not  love.  Oh,  the  infinite  pity  of  it!  And  he 
had  been  the  cause  of  it  all — if  he  had  not  left 
her  for  the  service  of  Holy  Church,  it  could 
never  have  happened.  Madre  de  Dios !  How 
he,  Evaristo  Artillaga,  would  have  loved  her 
and  cared  for  her — as  the  very  apple  of  his 
eye  he  would  have  guarded  her!  But  the  past 


The  King's  Highway  181 

was  gone  now.  He  might  look  across  the 
years,  but  he  might  not  change  their  tale.  With 
his  own  hand  he  had  placed  the  woman  he  lov 
ed  out  of  his  reach,  like  a  saint  in  a  niche.  She 
had  been  dead  for  years  now.  Her  daughter, 
who  might  have  been  his,  was  with  him  now. 
She  was  in  trouble,  and  she  had  come  to  him 
for  help.  Tenderly  Padre  Vicente  turned  to 
the  girl  at  his  side. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself,"  he  said  gently. 

A  suspicion  of  tears  dimmed  the  clear  gaze 
she  lifted  to  his. 

"I  will  tell  you,  padre,"  she  said.  "When  I 
grew  older,  I  was  betrothed  to  a  man  I  fancied 
I  loved — Antonio  Terrazzas.  You  knew  him. 
I  never  loved  him,  but  that  does  not  matter 
now,  for  he  is  dead.  Last  spring  my  father 
died  too,  and  I  came  to  live  with  my  aunt, 
Dona  Epifania  Montijo,  above  San  Diego.  I 
was  there  when  you  sent  me  the  picture  by  the 
hand  of  Don  Miguel  Artillaga."  She  hesitated. 
"When  Don  Miguel  left  the  house  after  bring 
ing  the  picture,  it  was  growing  dark.  Some 
one  knocked  him  down  on  the  road,  and  drag 
ged  him  into  a  field  below  the  house.  I  never 
knew  how  it  happened,  for  he  did  not  tell  me. 
But  the  next  morning  my  aunt  found  him  lying 
as  if  he  were  dead,  under  the  orange  hedge 
south  of  the  house.  She  had  him  brought  in, 


182  The  King's  Highway 

and  nursed  him  until  he  was  well.  I  saw  a 
great  deal  of  him  then." 

Until  now,  Rafaela's  voice  had  been  fairly 
calm — almost  apathetic  at  times.  Suddenly 
she  leaned  forward,  her  whole  body  tense,  her 
face  aflame. 

"Padre—"  she  breathed,  "I  loved  him— he 
loved  me !  We  never  said  but  one  word  to 
each  other  about  it,  but  we  both  knew.  I 
shall  never  stop  loving  him — I  cannot.  He 
can  never  stop  loving  me.  I  know  there  is  no 
forgetting." 

The  world-old  passion  in  her  eyes  clutched 
wildly  at  the  heart  of  Padre  Vicente.  For  an 
instant,  the  sea  and  the  sky  and  the  woman  in 
the  grass  beside  him  whirled  madly  before  his 
face.  With  a  sudden  effort  he  gained  control 
of  his  senses. 

"He  went  away,  but  he  loves  me  still,"  she 
was  saying.  He  has  said  nothing  since,  but  I 
know  that  he  cannot  forget.  I  have  tried  to 
forget,  but  I  cannot.  I  shall  never  forget." 

Her  voice  carried  conviction  to  Padre 
Vicente.  No,  she  would  never  forget. 

"I  know  now  how  it  was  with  my  mother 
when  she  loved  the  priest,"  said  Rafaela  more 
quietly.  "At  first  I  thought  I  was  committing 
sin  in  loving  Don  Miguel,  since  he  was  destin 
ed  for  holy  orders.  But  now  I  know  that  it 


The  King's  Highway  183 

was  no  sin.  Don  Miguel  was  never  meant  for 
a  priest."  Her  voice  quivered  again,  and  she 
clasped  her  hands  eagerly,  letting  fall  the  little 
yellow  daisy.  "Ever  since  I  first  saw  him,  I 
knew  that  he  was  no  priest — someone  had 
made  a  mistake.  The  good  God  had  meant 
him  for  a  soldier,  a  lover,  anything  but  a 
priest !  My  mother  was  unhappy  always.  Per 
haps  God  chose  the  man  she  loved  to  be  a 
priest ;  perhaps  it  was  right  that  she  should  be 
unhappy.  I  do  not  know.  But  I  do  know 
that  the  good  God  has  not  chosen  Don  Miguel 
for  a  priest — someone  has  made  a  mistake.  He 
can  never  make  a  true  priest — he  can  never  be 
happy!  I  know  it — I  know  it — I  know  it!" 

Her  voice,  lifted  in  an  agony  of  appeal,  rang 
insistently  in  the  ears  of  Padre  Vicente. 

"It  is  not  right  that  we  should  both  suffer 
because  someone  has  made  a  mistake.  If  he 
were  truly  called  to  be  a  priest,  it  would  be 
different,  but  he  is  not  called.  Therefore  we 
have  not  committed  sin.  But  I  could  not  go  to 
him  and  say :  'You  are  mistaken — you  love  me 
—leave  being  a  priest  for  my  sake.'  Santisima, 
no,  I  could  not  do  that.  So  for  a  long  time  I 
prayed  to  the  Holy  Mother  of  God  to  tell  me 
what  to  do.  She  put  it  into  my  heart  to  come 
to  you,  padre.  You  would  understand.  You 


184  The  King's  Highway 

would  know  how  to  help  me.  No  one  else 
could/'  Her  voice  ceased. 

Above  the  dash  of  the  waves  below  the  cliff 
sounded  the  shrill  cry  of  a  seagull.  Among  the 
little,  white  forget-me-nots  in  the  grass  a  bee 
hummed  noisily.  For  a  while  Padre  Vicente 
said  nothing.  Then  he  turned  to  the  woman 
at  his  side. 

"Your  faith  in  me  is  very  great,  my  daugh 
ter,"  he  said  gently. 

Impulsively  Rafaela  laid  her  slim  hand 
across  the  work-stained  fingers  of  the  priest. 

"You  are  like  a  saint,"  she  said  reverently. 
"I  know  that  you  can  help  me,  and  I  know  that 
you  will." 

Her  touch,  soft  and  light  as  the  petals  of  liv 
ing  roses,  sent  a  thrill  of  exquisite  pain  into 
the  heart  of  Padre  Vicente.  His  hand  trem 
bled,  and  he  drew  it  away.  He  had  known 
only  the  fragrance — he  had  never  touched  the 
petals  of  his  roses. 

"I  am  no  saint  at  all,  my  daughter,"  he  said 
slowly,  and  there  was  a  little  choke  in  his 
voice.  "I  am  only  a  man — weak  and  tempted 
as  other  men  are.  But  I  think  that  I  can  help 
you,  and  what  I  can,  I  will  do." 

Joy  transfigured  the  face  of  Rafaela.  Tears 
trembled  in  her  clear  eyes. 

"Padre,"  she    whispered,  "padre !    I    would 


The  King's  Highway  185 

give  my  soul  for  you — I  could  pray  to  you  if 
you  would  let  me,  padre!"  She  clasped  her 
hands,  and  would  have  knelt  before  him,  but 
with  a  look  of  pain  in  his  eyes,  he  motioned  her 
back.  They  both  arose. 

"Daughter,  I  am  not  worthy  that  anyone 
should  pray  to  me,"  said  the  priest  humbly. 
"God  knows  that  I  am  most  unworthy.  But  I 
will  write  to  Don  Miguel  to  come.  You  shall 
have  what  is  your  own,  beloved." 

How  should  Rafaela  know  that  the  tender 
light  in  his  eyes  was  not  for  her  alone? 

"I  will  kneel  before  you,  padre,"  she  pro 
tested  earnestly,  "for  your  blessing.  I  ask  one 
more  thing  at  your  hands — your  blessing." 
Silently  she  sank  to  her  knees  in  the  grass  at 
his  feet,  and  bowed  her  head.  Padre  Vicente 
lifted  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  extended  his 
hand  in  a  gesture  of  benediction. 

"May  the  good  God  bless  you  and  keep  you," 
he  said. 

When  the  girl  rose,  her  face  was  like  the 
face  of  the  angel  in  the  sacristy  at  San  Juan. 

"Adios,  padre,"  said  Rafaela  Montijo.  Then 
she  mounted  her  horse  and  rode  away. 

For  a  moment  Padre  Vicente  stood  gazing 
after  her,  until  she  disappeared  in  a  dip  of  the 
hills.  Then  he  set  out  and  walked  slowly  back 
across  the  fields  toward  the  Mission.  When  he 


186  The  King's  Highway 

came  there,  he  said  not  a  word  to  anyone,  but 
went  straight  to  his  little  whitewashed  room 
that  opened  off  the  courtyard  colonnade.  Sit 
ting  down  at  the  square  table  before  the  re 
cessed  window,  he  took  out  a  sheet  of  coarse, 
grayish  white  paper;  and,  dipping  his  quill  in 
the  old  carved  silver  inkstand,  wrote  the  fol 
lowing  letter  in  a  firm  hand : 
"Hijo  Mio: 

"When  this  comes  to  your  hand,  leave  every 
thing,  and  come  to  San  Juan  Capistrano  at 
once.  Why,  I  cannot  explain  here;  but  I 
think  you  will  not  be  sorry  hereafter.  I  have 
a  very  important  message  for  you,  and  I  would 
that  you  lingered  not  at  all,  but  made  what 
ever  speed  possible. 

"May  the  peace  of  God,  which  passeth  all 
understanding,  be  with  you. 

"Padre  Vicente  Artillaga." 

With  great  deliberation,  the  priest  dried  the 
ink  and  folded  the  paper.  He  traced  the  su 
perscription  in  his  precise,  Spanish  hand ;  then, 
heating  a  stick  of  dark  red  wax  in  the  flame  of 
a  candle  that  burned  before  the  Christ  in  the 
niche  by  the  window,  he  sealed  the  paper.  The 
letter  was  finished  and  ready  to  send.  With 
care,  Padre  Vicente  placed  it  on  the  corner  of 
the  table. 

For  a  moment  the  priest  looked  out  through 


The  King's  Highway  187 

the  rose-vines  as  if  he  saw  someone  a  great 
way  beyond  them ;  but  the  corridor  outside 
was  deserted.  A  strange  expression  crossed 
his  face.  Lifting  to  his  lips  the  fingers  that 
the  hand  of  Rafaela  had  touched,  he  kissed 
them  passionately.  Then  he  hid  his  face  in 
his  hands  on  the  table  where  the  picture  of 
Rafaela  had  lain,  and  sobbed  as  if  his  heart 
would  break. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
The  Cloister  Gate 

A^LEAR  DAY  at  that  season  of  the 
year  in  Alta  California  when  winter 
drifts  almost  imperceptibly  into 
spring.  A  gentle  breath  of  wind  urging  lazily 
before  it  masses  of  cloud  as  soft  and  white  as 
a  seagull's  breast;  green  hills  and  fields  sown 
with  blue  and  royal  purple  and  red-gold ;  wide 
stretches  of  orchard  fragrant  under  a  gently- 
tossing  foam  of  wonderful  pink  and  white 
bloom ;  the  cheerful  crackle  of  flocking  black 
birds  and  the  liquid  note  of  a  meadowlark; 
new  life  everywhere — new  life  rejoicing  in  its 
own  strength,  new  life  rejoicing  in  the  world- 
old  call  to  a  new  love.  Late  on  the  afternoon 
of  such  a  day  as  this,  Miguel  rode  into  San 
Juan  Capistrano  on  the  King's  Highway,  and 
cared  not  at  all  for  the  glory  of  field  or  hill  or 
sky.  The  blue  of  heaven  might  have  been  hid 
den  behind  lowering  clouds,  the  blooming 
fields  wrapped  in  gray  rain,  the  birds  silent; 
he  would  not  have  cared  at  all.  Last  spring 
he  had  galloped  madly  southward  on  the 
King's  Highway,  his  head  awhirl  with  joy,  his 
heart  on  fire.  This  spring  he  rode  back  at  a 


The  King's  Highivay  189 

walk,  and  the  weary  feet  of  his  crawling  mount 
were  not  heavier  than  his  heart. 

At  the  Mission  gate,  a  little  group  of  Mexi 
can  cavalrymen  were  bickering  with  a  crowd 
of  Indians  over  a  basket  of  fish.  The  Mexicans 
glanced  curiously  at  the  tall,  young  man 
astride  the  gray  horse,  but  the  Indians  made 
way  for  him  respectfully.  They  knew  Don 
Miguel  de  Dios  Artillaga,  but  it  was  evident 
that  they  were  surprised  to  see  him  here. 
Though  courteous,  Miguel  made  short  work  of 
his  greetings  to  the  Indians ;  and,  giving  his 
horse  into  the  hands  of  Juanito,  he  made  his 
way  into  the  Mission  courtyard.  Old  Pablo, 
leaning  on  his  stick  in  the  afternoon  sun,  hob 
bled  forward  to  meet  him. 

"Glory  be  to  God!"  wheezed  the  old  man. 
"I  had  thought  never  to  see  Don  Miguel 
more !" 

"Dear  Pablo,"  answered  Miguel  gently, 
"what  I  have  come  for,  Dios  sabe!  Pablo,  do 
you  know  where  Padre  Vicente  is?" 

"Si,  Don  Miguel,  si,"  whispered  old  Pablo 
in  his  husky  voice.  "The  good  padre  is  in  the 
almond  orchard  to  look  at  the  trees.  He — " 

But  before  the  old  Indian  could  finish, 
Miguel  was  crossing  the  courtyard.  The  dim 
eyes  of  old  Pablo  followed  the  young  man 


190  The  King's  Highway 

wistfully  until  he  passed  under  an  archway 
and  was  gone. 

White  and  faintly  pink  like  sea-spray  in  the 
pale  rose  of  sunset,  a  delicate  foam  of  bloom 
filled  all  the  almond  orchard  with  the  pungent 
odor  of  fresh  honey.  The  bees  hummed  lazily 
in  the  trees,  and  Padre  Vicente,  walking  in 
the  orchard,  looked  up  to  where  their  glisten 
ing  wings  flashed  among  the  flowering 
branches.  The  promised  yield  was  great;  in 
the  almond  orchard  the  harvests  were  not  yet 
over.  The  trees  would  go  on  blossoming  and 
bearing  fruit  until  they  died  or  were  cut  down. 
Was  it  not  also  the  will  of  the  good  God  that 
His  priest  should  remain  faithful  to  the  end? 

"Be  thou  faithful  unto  death,  and  I  will  give 
thee  a  crown  of  life." 

As  if  he  would  search  the  heart  of  the 
flowers,  Padre  Vicente  reached  out  his  hand 
and  drew  a  blossom-loaded  branch  toward 
him.  The  long,  brown  sleeve  of  his  robe 
caught  on  a  twig,  and  a  shower  of  soft,  white 
petals  fluttered  down,  lodging  on  the  priest's 
shoulders  and  in  the  folds  of  his  robe.  Then 
he  heard  a  footfall  on  the  ground  behind  him. 

"Padre  Vicente!"  cried  Miguel,  and  cast  his 
arms  about  the  priest's  neck  as  he  used  to  do 
when  a  child. 

"Miguelito  mio!"   Almost  unconsciously  the 


The  King's  Highway  191 

endearing,  childish  name  slipped  from  the  lips 
of  Padre  Vicente.  The  arm  that  he  placed 
about  the  shoulders  of  the  young  man  trem 
bled,  and  Miguel  felt  it. 

"Padre!"  Miguel's  voice  was  appealing. 
"Padre — I  have  a  confession  to  make."  Once 
more  under  the  spell  of  the  magnetic  person 
ality  of  the  priest,  he  looked  adoringly  into  the 
deep  eyes.  "You  will  forgive,"  he  said  loyally. 

"You  shall  not  confess  to  me."  Padre  Vi 
cente's  hand  was  steady  now.  He  took  it  away 
from  Miguel's  shoulder,  and  stood  looking  ten 
derly  into  the  young  man's  face.  "I  know 
everything,  and  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  for 
give.  Rather  should  I  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

Blank  amazement  was  written  across  Mi 
guel's  open  countenance. 

"But  padre — "  he  began. 

"There  is  no  'but/  hijo  mio,"  interrupted  the 
priest.  "Let  us  sit  down,  and  I  will  tell  you 
why  I  sent  for  you  to  come." 

Together  the  two  sat  down  in  the  filmy 
shade  of  the  almond  trees. 

"Miguelito  mio,"  murmured  Padre  Vicente, 
caressingly,  "Miguelito  mio,"  I  have  loved  you, 
hijo  mio,  more  than  you  can  ever  know.  But 
I  have  been  mistaken.  I  thought  that  the 
good  God  had  called  you  to  be  a  priest  to  His 
people — I  thought  that  you  would  be  like  new 


192  The  King's  Highway 

life  in  the  priesthood  of  Holy  Church  here  in 
New  Spain.  It  was  my  belief — my  dream — 
you  were  as  one  sent — you  were  to  do  great 
things  for  my  poor  people.  But  I  was  mis 
taken.  God  has  willed  otherwise.  He  has 
not  chosen  you  to  be  priest,  hijo  mio." 

Miguel  flushed  hotly  under  his  dark  skin. 

"Padre — "  he  stammered  painfully,  but  got 
no  further. 

"Thanks  to  the  wisdom  of  the  good  God,  I 
know  that. I  have  been  mistaken,"  the  priest 
went  on  evenly.  "I  have  seen  her — Rafaela 
Montijo,  and  I  know." 

All  the  blood  left  Miguel's  face. 

"You  have  seen  her — Rafaela  Montijo — "  he 
repeated  blankly. 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  her,"  answered  Padre  Vi 
cente.  "You  love  her,  Miguelito  mio."  His 
voice  was  a  bit  unsteady,  but  he  went  on.  "She 
loves  you.  Nothing  must  ever  separate  you 
from  loving  her — nothing  else  is  worth  while 
now." 

A  curiously  chastened  look  passed  across 
the  priest's  face.  He  laid  his  work-roughened 
hand  over  Miguel's  strong,  brown  one  where 
it  lay  almost  hidden  in  the  grass. 

"You  do  love  her,"  he  said  with  the  shade  of 
a  question  in  his  tone. 

With  a   sudden   motion,   Miguel  buried  his 


The  King's  Highway  193 

face  in  Padre  Vicente's  coarse,  brown  robe. 
His  shoulders  heaved  convulsively.  Then  he 
lifted  his  head,  a  hint  of  tears  in  his  black  vel 
vet  eyes. 

"I  love  her — no  one  can  ever  know  how 
much !"  he  whispered  brokenly. 

"I  know,"  said  Padre  Vicente. 

Startled,  Miguel  looked  into  the  priest's 
eyes.  As  a  child  he  had  said  to  old  Rosario: 
"My  padre  knows  everything."  A  man  now, 
he  found  that  blind  faith  still  unshaken.  It 
did  not  occur  to  him  to  ask  how  Padre  Vi 
cente  had  come  by  his  knowledge.  With  the 
easy  acquiesence  of  one  in  a  dream,  the  young 
man  stared  eagerly  into  the  other's  face. 

"You  love  her,"  continued  the  priest  calmly. 
"You  shall  marry  her.  You  have  made  no 
vows  to  the  Church ;  I  release  you  from  all 
promises  to  me.  Go  to  her — take  her  in  your 
arms — tell  her  that  you  love  her.  It  shall  be 
your  happiness  and  mine." 

But  Miguel  did  not  hear  the  last  sentence. 
Shaking  off  the  blank  amazement  that  had 
clung  to  him,  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  brushing 
down  a  shower  of  snowy  almond  petals  about 
his  head.  The  light  of  a  great  love  burned  in 
his  eyes,  and  for  a  moment  he  did  not  see  the 
man  in  the  coarse,  brown  robe  in  the  shade  at 
the  foot  of  the  tree.  Instead,  he  saw  Rafaela 


194  The  King's  Highway 

Montijo  as  he  had  seen  her  on  that  last  morn 
ing  at  the  house  of  the  lone  poplar,  a  sort  of 
exaltation  in  her  eyes — the  eyes  that  had  shed 
tears  for  love  of  him. 

"You  must  not  ask  her  to  share  your  pov 
erty."  Padre  Vicente's  words  broke  rudely  in 
upon  the  young  man's  reverie.  Miguel  looked 
down  and  met  the  strangely  detached  gaze  of 
the  man  under  the  tree. 

"I  have  nothing  of  my  own,"  said  the  man. 
"But  there  is  a  goodly  sum  held  in  trust  for  me 
in  Spain — part  of  my  father's  fortune.  It  was 
not  to  be  used  for  the  Church,  so  it  has  never 
been  touched.  You  shall  have  it  all,  Miguel 
of  my  heart." 

Miguel's  face  changed.  Swiftly  he  fell  to 
his  knees  in  the  petal-strewn  grass  at  the 
priest's  sandalled  feet. 

"No — Santisima!  no!"  he  cried  penitently. 
"No — !  I  cannot  take  your  money,  padre!  I 
do  not  deserve  it — no — !" 

"The  money  is  not  mine.  You  will  take  it 
— I  command  you  to  take  it."  Padre  Vicente's 
voice  was  tender,  yet  there  was  something  in 
it  that  would  not  brook  opposition.  A  faint, 
inscrutable  smile  played  about  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  "It  is  a  very  small  part  of  a  debt 
that  I  owe/'  he  said.  "It  will  help  to  make 


The  King's  Highway  195 

you  and  someone  else  very  happy.     You  will 
take  the  money/' 

Under  the  gentle  dominance  of  the  elder 
man's  personality,  Miguel  bowed  submissive- 

iy. 

"There  is  no  way  to  thank  you  enough,"  he 
whispered. 

The  smile  still  hovered  about  the  corners  of 
the  priest's  mouth. 

"A  man  does  not  require  thanks  for  the  pay 
ment  of  his  just  debts,"  he  said  firmly,  and 
there  was  something  in  his  eyes  and  his  voice 
that  kept  Miguel  from  asking  what  that  just 
debt  was.  "Get  up,  Miguel." 

The  young  man  rose  to  his  feet.  Then  he 
turned  his  eyes  upon  Padre  Vicente's  face.  The 
almond  petals  in  the  folds  of  the  priest's  robe 
were  not  whiter  than  the  hair  at  his  temples, 
and  to  Miguel  it  seemed  that  the  man  looked 
old  and  tired. 

"Padre!"  he  cried  unsteadily,  "padre — you 
are  tired!  You  have  worked  too  hard  here — 
you  must  leave  it  all — you  must  come  to  stay 
in  the  home  that  the  money  will  buy!  Say 
that  you  will  come — padre  mio!" 

For  a  moment  the  priest  did  not  speak.  His 
eyes  were  upon  the  peace  of  the  scene  about 
him — the  calm  before  the  storm. 

"The  good  God  knows  that  I  should  love  to 


196  The  King's  Highway 

be  with  you,  Miguel,"  he  said.  "But  my  peo 
ple  need  me — I  am  never  tired  of  working  for 
them.  If  anything  should  happen — to  drive 
them  out  of  their  homes,  they  would  need  me 
more  than  ever.  As  long  as  they  need  me,  I 
will  stay.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  always  pray  for  the 
blessing  of  God  upon  you,  Miguel,  you  and 
Rafaela  Montijo." 

At  first,  Miguel's  face  clouded,  but  at  men 
tion  of  Rafaela,  joy  flamed  up  in  his  eyes.  At 
sight  of  the  unspeakable  happiness  written 
there,  the  shadow  of  remembered  pain  flitted 
across  Padre  Vicente's  strong  features.  He 
lifted  his  eyes  to  where  the  white  almond 
flowers  and  the  blue  of  heaven  mingled  in  an 
exquisite  mosaic  of  turquoise  and  pearl.  Be 
yond  the  tossing  foam  of  snowy  bloom,  a  thin 
line  of  blue  smoke  curled  slowly  upward  from 
the  big  kitchen  chimney  that  looked  so  much 
like  a  fanciful  dove-cote.  Could  cruel  desola 
tion  ever  lay  waste  this  peaceful  fold  of  Holy 
Church?  Padre  Vicente  knew  that  it  could. 
He  stood  up,  and  turned  again  to  Miguel. 

"Listen,  hijo  mio,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  am 
giving  you  only  what  is  your  own — your  free 
dom.  And  the  good  God  knows  that  in  so  far 
as  I  do  give  it  to  you,  I  give  it  out  of  a  whole 
heart."  He  paused  to  lay  his  hand  affection- 


The  King's  Highway  19? 

ately  upon  the  other's  head.  "Your  happiness 
shall  be  mine,"  he  finished. 

The  wonderful  joy  in  Miguel's  eyes  deep 
ened. 

"Madre  de  Dios,  but  you  are  a  saint!"  he 
cried  impetuously,  "a  very  saint  from  heaven — 
you — "  But  he  got  no  farther. 

"No,"  said  Padre  Vicente  calmly,  "not  a 
saint,  but  a  man  very  like  other  men."  Sud 
denly  his  manner  became  imperious.  "But 
you  are  going  to  her — to  Rafaela  Montijo,"  he 
went  on  almost  eagerly.  "You  will  want  to 
start  now — you  are  tired,  but  I  know  that  you 
want  to  start  now  so  that  you  can  be  in  San 
Diego  tomorrow  morning." 

Miguel  stared  at  Padre  Vicente.  How 
should  the  priest  be  able  to  read  his  thoughts 
so  plainly?  All  at  once  the  young  man  realiz 
ed  that  he  had  not  asked  a  single  question 
since  the  two  had  met  in  the  orchard  that  after 
noon.  He  had  taken  everything  on  faith,  mak 
ing  no  inquiries,  and  he  made  none  now. 

"You  must  have  something  to  eat  and  to 
drink,"  went  on  the  priest,  and  you  must  rest 
a  while  before  you  start.  Then  you  will  want 
a  fresh  horse."  Padre  Vicente's  manner  be 
came  strangely  exalted.  "You  will  reach  San 
Diego  in  the  morning.  She  will  be  waiting  for 
you!"  he  cried  joyfully.  Then  he  placed  his 


198  The  King's  Highway 

two  hands  on  the  young  man's  shoulders,  and 
looked  steadfastly  into  the  black  velvet  eyes. 

"Hijo  mio,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  was  vi 
brant  with  feeling,  "hijo  mio — you  love  Rafaela 
Montijo.  You  can  never  know  a  holier  thing 
than  love  of  her.  Promise  me  that  you  will 
never  let  it  go." 

Miguel  did  not  waver. 

"I  give  my  promise,  padre,"  he  said  solemn 
ly.  "The  good  God  knows  I  cannot  choose 

but  keep  it." 

*          *          * 

An  hour  passed.  Over  the  valley  of  the 
Mission  of  the  Crusader  Saint  burned  the  win 
ter  sunset,  deepening  into  rose  and  fiery 
amethyst  along  the  eastern  hilltops.  South 
ward  on  the  King's  Highway,  between  fields  of 
sweet-breathed  grass,  rode  Don  Miguel  de 
Dios  Artillaga.  In  his  face  glowed  joy  un 
speakable,  in  his  heart  joy  unthinkable.  He 
was  tired,  but  he  had  forgotten  that  for  love  of 
Rafaela  Montijo — and  he  would  ride  all  night 
that  he  might  see  her  and  tell  her  of  his  love. 
From  the  thickets  to  the  south  of  the  little 
valley  the  long-drawn  cry  of  a  night  bird  fore 
told  the  coming  darkness,  but  to  Miguel  the 
sound  brought  only  a  thrill  of  joy.  He  was 
going  to  her — Rafaela  Montijo,  and  already 
the  day  had  dawned  in  his  heart. 


The  King's  Highicay  199 

In  a  shadow  by  the  Mission  gate,  Padre  Vi 
cente  stood  and  watched  Miguel  until  he  dis 
appeared  over  the  hill  on  the  King's  Highway. 
From  the  cloisters  came  the  murmur  of  voices, 
but  the  priest  did  not  stir.  For  a  long  time  he 
stood  straining  his  eyes  into  the  gathering 
dusk.  When  at  last,  ashes  of  roses  had  dulled 
all  the  gleaming  amethyst  and  fire  glow  of  the 
hill  tops,  he  knelt  for  a  moment,  his  eyes  lifted 
to  where  the  first  star  of  evening  glimmered 
palely.  Slowly  he  rose  to  his  feet.  Again 
there  came  to  his  ears  the  uncertain  murmur 
of  happy,  human  voices.  He  turned  now,  and 
a  faint  smile  crossed  his  face.  Then  he  entered 
the  cloister  gate  and  shut  it  steadfastly  behind 
him. 

THE  END 


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